


Two houses, alike in indignity

by anactoriatalksback



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Arcane Parliamentary procedure is something that can be so personal, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Francis Crozier's Bisexual Awakening, I'll level with you: Brexit will be prevented through the power of Fitzier, Idiots in Love, Just in case you thought I had shame or standards, M/M, Occasional mildly NSFW embedded images, Slow Burn, Unrequited and unacknowledged Francis Crozier/James Clark Ross, Well specifically the 2010s, past francis crozier/sophia cracroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoriatalksback/pseuds/anactoriatalksback
Summary: Francis Crozier is the Chief Whip of a beleaguered Labour Party. His best friend's abandoned him and his party leader's an idiot. And then there's the posh bastards on the other side, especially that shiny-haired eejit Fitzjames...
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 118
Kudos: 86





	1. In fair Westminster, where we lay our scene

**Author's Note:**

> I will be lifting plot points and themes wholecloth from the National Theatre's This House, which I won't even apologise for if it introduces even one person to the play. You can thank me later.
> 
> I hope the story's self-explanatory, but just in case, below are a few procedural points to bear in mind:
> 
> 1\. There were 650 seats in total in the Lower House of Parliament in 2010. 326 were required for a majority.  
> 2\. The two largest parties in the United Kingdom are the Labour Party and the Conservatives (or 'Tories'). There's a whole raft of others, which will come into play in various ways.  
> 3\. Members of Parliament are required to show up physically for a vote on a Bill.  
> 4\. The Party Whips are supposed to make sure that members of their respective parties vote according to the party line.  
> 5\. 'Pairing' is a gentleman's agreement between the two largest parties whereby, if a party knows that one of its members cannot be present for a vote on a bill, they can ask for someone from the opposite side to sit out. It's an ancient custom but not a part of formal Parliamentary regulations, per se.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we Preside over the Death of a Political Party - Mortifying Scenes of Vivisection - an Announcement of a Happy Union and an Impending Separation - an Introduction to Solemn Functions

‘… And that’s Corby gone as well,’ says Tom Blanky.

Francis raises a glass of his Badger’s in acknowledgement. Not his first of the night, and it certainly won’t be his last.

‘… And, as Corby falls to the Conservative Party, John Ross will have to be asking himself some tough questions now,’ says David Dimbleby on screen. ‘Or they’ll be asked of him at the next Labour party conference.’

‘Questions like ‘Why in fuck’s name did you ever think you could run a piss-up in a brewery, let alone a political party?’’ says Blanky.

‘Birthright,’ says Francis. ‘He was born to it, remember?’

‘I was born shitting myself,’ says Blanky, ‘I have a right to do that, an’ all.’

‘Well, so has John,’ says Francis, and is rewarded with a long cackle.

It’ll be last orders soon enough. Stephen’s will, at some point, gently suggest that they move on. Francis and Blanky will make their way to Blanky’s mysteriously comfortable house in Mile End. Blanky will greet Esther with a smacking kiss and Esther will offer them blisteringly hot and very strong tea. Francis will watch them with an orphan’s hunger and a drunk’s mawkishness. They will sit glued to the BBC and wake up mumbling electoral margins from Finchley or Chester-le-Street.

Not a bad night out.

Well, I mean, yes, it’s a _terrible_ night out, but.

‘John’s talking to Stanley,’ says Blanky, elbowing Francis awake.

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘could no one hide the fecker’s trousers or something?’

‘Wouldn’t stop him,’ says Blanky, and Francis groans in agreement.

John Ross is a man beloved of political cartoonists and, as far as Francis can tell, precisely nobody else. He comes from money, old money and lots of it, but money used to build schools and orphanages and fund Fabian Socialist pamphlets and, eventually, Labour political dynasties. He bullied and jostled his way into the Labour leadership five years ago and the party was too startled to protest. They’ve been wincing their way through every bye-election and debate ever since.

To this day Francis doesn’t know why Ross chose the Labour party – he can think of five Tory politicians off the top of his head who lean more noticeably left than he does. But then, Ross seems to have utterly bypassed his Beatrice-Webb-quoting, Quakerish forebears, and thrown himself back to fiefdoms and blood feuds. Ross doesn’t love the Labour party so much as he wants the Tories’ heads on a stick. Which is a perspective Francis can agree with, but politically it’s not of much use.

It’s certainly not much protection against Stephen Stanley, formerly a cardiothoracic surgeon who was spotted at a fundraising dinner and eased into the BBC through stints on the _News Quiz_ commenting on NHS policies, then a guest spot on _Have I Got News For You_ , before flowering to a coveted spot on _Newsnight_. A former colleague, when asked about this startling abandonment of a promising surgical career, said he hadn’t been surprised. ‘Stephen always liked cutting people,’ he said, ‘and now there’ll be much less fuss when they die.’

‘Welcome to _Newsnight’s_ Election Special,’ says Stanley, ‘where we currently find Labour’s electoral prospects lying, prone and twitching, on a fishmonger’s slab.’

‘Not his best,’ says Blanky critically.

‘Doesn’t need to be his best,’ says Francis.

‘We’re joined by John Ross,’ continues Stanley, ‘Prime Minister and Labour party leader.’ He pauses and smiles thinly before continuing ‘for now.’

Ross’s smile has stayed fixed on his face, but even his moustache appears to be edging away from it. ‘I shall _continue_ to be the Prime Minister and Labour party leader.’

‘On what basis do you make this prediction?’

Ross says ‘In turbulent times, the party knows it needs strong leadership.’

‘Yes,’ says Stanley, ‘whom did you have in mind?’

‘Now, see here - ’

‘… Oh,’ says Stanley, after a long slow blink, ‘I see.’

‘Now, see here - ’

‘Prime Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘how would you say the election is going?’ Ross opens his mouth and Stanley says ‘To clarify, I mean for the Labour party.’

A vein starts beating on Ross’s forehead. ‘I know what you meant.’

‘That’s one comfort,’ says Stanley, ‘and well?’

‘He knows,’ says Blanky, ‘that he doesn’t have to react to every _single_ one of Stanley’s little pokes, right?’

Francis grunts and reaches for his glass. On screen, Ross is saying ‘Stephen, I’m proud of all that we’ve accomplished, and at the end of the night, I think the voters will reward the bold direction – ‘

‘Spending cuts,’ says Stanley, ‘Pay freezes for junior doctors.’

Ross coughs. ‘Stephen, we are running a ballooning deficit, and steps need to be taken.’

‘Slashes to fuel subsidies for people on fixed incomes during the coldest winter on record, for example.’

‘We all,’ says Ross, taking refuge in huffiness, ‘need to tighten our belts when times are hard.’

‘Not the MPs, apparently,’ says Stanley. ‘The party put forward a motion to give yourselves a 10% salary increase.’

‘That is a perfectly reasonable - ’

‘At a time when care workers are earning significantly less than a living wage.’

Ross bristles. ‘This is precisely the sort of oversimplification I have come to expect from the biased BBC. You cannot take – take apples, and compare them to – to –‘

‘Oranges,’ says Blanky, ‘Jesus, John, oranges, you have to have heard of them, you’re not a tenth century sailor. Oranges. Fucking oranges.’

Francis drains his glass as he watches Ross visibly ransack his memory for a fruit – any fruit, or possibly anything edible – that is not an apple, and just as visibly come up short.

‘A completely different kind of apple,’ finishes Ross.

‘I promise you, Prime Minister,’ says Stanley, ‘I am under no illusions that any one of your MPs is remotely the same sort of … apple … as a junior doctor. I do want to know how you think you are going to govern.’

‘We are going to govern,’ says Ross. ‘Yes, we have had to take some difficult decisions during difficult times, but the people will respond to a firm hand.’

‘I’d say they are responding, yes,’ says Stanley, ‘Labour’s lost 67 seats so far, 60 of them to the Conservative party.’

‘Stephen, when the dust settles, I am convinced that the British people will say, with one voice, that it is Labour’s vision for the country that will prevail.’

‘Will it,’ says Stanley. ‘Prime Minister, Labour stands at 280 seats, and the Conservatives at 276. 22 constituencies are left to declare their results. Mathematically no possible path to a majority, and ample opportunity for the Conservatives to overtake you. So, I ask again, how do you think you are going to govern?’

Every individual hair in Ross’s moustache seems to be bristling in a different direction. ‘The Tories don’t have a way to a majority either.’

‘No,’ says Stanley, ‘but they are closer than they were in 2005.’ He pauses and takes a sip of water. ‘The year you took over the leadership.’

‘Tenner says he’s gonna say ‘Now see here’ again,’ says Francis.

‘Piss off, no one’s taking that bet,’ says Blanky easily, and sure enough the fatal words puff themselves past Ross’s moustache.

‘Are you saying it’s a coincidence that Labour has been haemorrhaging support since you took over the leadership, Prime Minister?’

‘This is exactly the sort of slant I’d expect from the biased BBC.’

‘Do you disagree that you’re losing seats, or that this loss has followed your becoming the leader of the party?’

‘I disagree,’ says Ross, ‘with the way you’re putting it.’

‘Putting,’ says Stanley, ‘which?’

Ross, distinctly puce, says ‘It is precisely this sort of hostile media environment that makes it impossible to get any real change done.’

Stanley considers Ross in silence for a good twenty seconds before asking ‘And is that your explanation of Labour’s performance tonight?’

‘When the dust settles - ’

‘When the dust settles, Prime Minister, you will still be short of a majority. Now, _if_ Labour is invited to form a government, will you shore up your deeply underwhelming numbers with support from other parties?’

‘We will,’ says Blanky, ‘because we don’t have a fucking choice.’

Francis says nothing. On screen, Ross says ‘I’m sure you’d like me to answer that, Stephen.’

‘It is why I asked, yes.’

Ross says ‘Well, look, Stephen, I’m sure you’d, you’d, you’d like to rush me into an answer, but we need to take a number of factors into consideration - ’

‘Is one of those factors basic arithmetic?’

‘Now see here - ’

‘A simple question, Prime Minister. If you end the night the largest party, is Labour open to forming a coalition with the Liberal Democrats?’

‘Yes, all right,’ says Ross, ‘I heard you the first time.’

‘Will you answer me the second time?’

‘He’s going to say no coalition,’ says Francis.

There’s a pause and Blanky says ‘He bloody is, isn’t he?’

‘I am confident in the mandate Labour will secure from the people, Stephen, and - ’

‘Yes or no, Prime Minister.’

‘If you’ll let me finish - ’

‘I’m trying to get you to _begin_ , Prime Minister.’

‘I’m sure you’d like nothing more than to, to bully me into an answer, but - ’

‘I would, Prime Minister, but as we’re running out of time - ’

‘We have no need of the Liberal Democrats,’ says Ross.

There is a pause while Stanley surveys him. ‘I disagree,’ he says, ‘but thank you for your candour, Prime Minister.’

Blanky switches off the TV and slumps back in his seat. ‘That’s torn it.’

Francis looks at Blanky. ‘We’ll have to talk to James.’

* * *

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ says James. They’re sitting in his drawing room, afternoon light flooding in and giving James a blazing halo. Ann had welcomed them with a sympathetic press of hands, and then disappeared tactfully.

Francis looks at Blanky. ‘Sorry?’

James puts down his teacup and looks at Francis. ‘I’ve told Uncle John I don’t want a Cabinet position, even if we manage to squeak in.’

‘What?’

James leans forward. ‘I promised Ann I’d ease out.’

Francis holds James’s gaze as the words come at him. ‘She said, when I asked her – she said it’s not what she wanted. I told you.’

‘But she said yes,’ says Francis, and winces at how the words sound: petulant, pleading, the voice of a frightened child. ‘She said. Yes.’

‘She did,’ says James, ‘ _if_ I agreed to pull back.’

Francis can feel Blanky’s eyes on him, but he can’t look anywhere but at James. ‘And you agreed.’

‘I agreed,’ says James, ‘Of course I agreed. Come on now, Frank.’

Of course James agreed, thinks Francis. Of course he did. Francis was there the day James had met Ann, at some hideous send-off for some Tory grandee. Francis doesn’t remember why they were invited. Childishly, he wishes they hadn’t been. Maybe if they hadn’t gone … or if Ann hadn’t come. Dr Ann Coulman, lovely and accomplished and kind. Ann Coulman, daughter of the august and severe Tom Coulman, Home Secretary for five years and rumoured for the top job before illness meant he had to step down.

Francis had seen James’s head snap around, had watched him put down the plate of soggy vol-au-vents he’d been dallying with and go over to her. Had watched him smooth his hand nervously over his curls and thought _Jaysus_.

Had watched James’s head bend, had watched the blush march across his cheeks and down to his neck. Had watched Ann look at him. Had watched the shape of her mouth and the tilt of her head. Had allowed Blanky to drag him away but kept an eye and an ear cocked for James. Had let Blanky waggle his eyebrows at him on James’s return and refused to watch his reaction. Had listened to the near-giggle that escaped James and thought _Oh_.

Ann had been torn about James. Oh, she liked him – she liked him very much, people tended to like James very much – but she knew about him too. His meteoric rise. His prospects in the Party. James was headed for the big one, she knew that, and she knew what the big one – the wanting of it, the waiting for it – had done to her father, and perhaps more pertinently what it had done to her mother.

Francis remembers the night James turned up at his doorstep, pale and sunken-eyed, fists jammed into his pockets. A long night, silent and drenched with all Francis’s whisky, then all his beer, then finally even the oversweet sherry someone had brought and that Francis had never thrown away. He remembers the hangover. He remembers venturing a hand on James’s shoulder, and the watery but resolute smile he’d received. He remembers dragging James with him to meetings with the Transport Workers’ Union. He remembers the two of them propping up a bar while they argued the mechanics of the deal between the bus network bosses. He remembers James’s shoulder bumping against his as they staggered back to James’s house (Francis’s house? Someone’s house) and flopped onto the sofa. He remembers another hangover, and James tossing a cushion at his head in the morning to wake him for coffee.

He remembers that they tried to stay away from each other, James and Ann. He remembers that they failed. He remembers plans to watch the footie cancelled because Ann’s shifts at the hospital had been unexpectedly rearranged. He remembers Ann’s warm smile and her ‘The famous Francis Crozier!’ He remembers the light in James’s eyes as he looked between Ann and Francis. He remembers the first time Ann opened the door to James’s flat. He remembers her glad bright smile, and the effort it took to summon one in response. He remembers the first time Ann said ‘You _must_ stay, I’ll make the bed in the guest room’, and telling himself she was nice, so nice, such a lovely woman. He remembers the time Blanky and James and he spent in James’s new house in Blackheath, shanghaied into painting the kitchen because James wanted to surprise Ann when she was done with her 36-hour on-call shift. He remembers Blanky saying ‘fuck this for a laugh’ and buggering off after a few hours. He remembers a day spent arguing over the precise shade of yellow James had chosen. He remembers laughing till he couldn’t stand upright anymore. He remembers that was the last time he’d had so much of James to himself. Then he remembers Ann coming home and her peal of incredulous, gratified laughter. He remembers James and Ann holding hands. He remembers muttering something about meeting Tom and looking for his coat. He remembers that Ann begged him to stay and that James said ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Frank.’

‘I thought she understood,’ says Francis.

James sighs. ‘She tried, Frank. But – look, you remember the steel workers’ bill?’

Francis does. He remembers long nights spent making calls and twisting arms to work in pension protection for steel workers with James’s head bent over the paper, steadfast and intent. He remembers Ann softly placing sandwiches down on the table between them. A nice woman. A lovely woman. In that moment, all things had seemed possible.

‘Two months, Francis. Two months where it was all I could talk about. One week of me and you and Tom at our kitchen table.’

‘Yes,’ says Francis. In that moment, all things had seemed possible.

‘Good work for two months, that,’ says Blanky. ‘Got what we wanted, eh?’

James smiles. ‘We did. But it was two months of treating Ann like my housekeeper. Essie wouldn’t stand for it, would she?’

Blanky laughs. ‘Our Essie wouldn’t stand for a pile of things she does stand for. Makes me pay in the end, mind.’

‘I’m glad she does,’ says James. ‘I don’t think I could afford Ann’s price, though.’

He’s paying it, though, thinks Francis. James Clark Ross, political lightning in a bottle. Handsome James, principled James, James who can get a miner to laugh and an earl to listen because he went to school with his son, James who could have taken it, taken the top job and done something with it, something that mattered, James who –

Well.

It doesn’t matter what James would or could have done. What matters is that, in this moment, it’s not enough.

‘Maybe if we talked to her,’ says Blanky, ‘your uncle’s killing us, James.’

‘Leave it, Tom,’ says Francis.

‘Maybe just for another year - ’

‘Leave it, Tom.’

Francis can feel James’s eyes on him, and he looks down at his teacup. ‘Right, then,’ he says, ‘best be off.’

‘Frank,’ says James, ‘you know it’s the right thing.’

Francis looks up at James and manages a smile. ‘All right,’ he says.

Outside, Blanky turns to Francis. ‘You all right, there?’

Francis shrugs.

‘You wouldn’t even try.’

‘No point,’ says Francis. ‘He’s not an idiot. He knows his uncle. If we – it – mattered to him - ’

‘It _matters_ to him, Frank,’ says Blanky.

‘Not enough,’ says Francis.

Blanky looks at him for a long moment before sighing. ‘He’s missing out on some excitement.’

‘He is that,’ says Francis. ‘Anywhere we can get a pint here isn’t overrun with yuppies?’

Blanky grins and Francis can see him flicking through a mental catalogue of proper Old Man boozers and sea dog haunts. ‘This way.’

‘Sure about this?’

‘Not a goat’s cheese tartlet in sight, cross my heart.’

* * *

He’s in a different pub (one which not only does goat’s cheese tartlets but boasts the best baked Camembert and pickled trompettes this side of the Channel) when he runs into Sophia – or, rather, as he suspects, Sophia runs into him.

She sits down opposite him, beautiful and precise as a scalpel. Francis still feels a baffled pang when he sees her, loss combined with a sliver of doubt that he ever had her in the first place.

‘Hello, Francis,’ she says, eyes lingering on the whisky in his hand. Francis meets her gaze and lifts the glass to his lips. Typical of Sophia to reserve the right to censor what he puts into his body long after handing him a neatly-packed box of his things with a brisk, kindly ‘We both know this isn’t working, Francis.’

‘James says he’s phasing out of politics,’ she says.

Francis nods. Sophia watches him for a while before saying ‘And Ross? What’s the plan there?’

‘Don’t know,’ says Francis, ‘Blanky’s problem.’

Sophia’s eyes narrow. ‘Blanky’s problem?’

‘Not mine anyway,’ says Francis. ‘thinking of calling it quits myself.’

‘Oh?’ says Sophia. ‘And do what?’

Francis shrugs. He wishes he were the sort of person whom drink loosened, made slapdash and giddy, but this – this peaty fog which all words must struggle through to reach him – this will do. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

‘I asked you,’ says Sophia, ‘I used to ask you if you’d consider it.’

She did, thinks Francis. Every new client of hers that had needed to be screened, every tense whispered argument, every potential conflict of interest, until finally Sophia had asked why it was that her career needed to be fenced-off and cordoned, as though she were the plague-carrier between the two of them and not Francis. Especially on the nights when Francis was fending off backbenchers and trade unionists because John Fucking Ross had taken a great feudal shit on them from a great feudal height.

‘The way you looked at me…’ says Sophia, and her lips twitch into a smile of genuine amusement, ‘I should’ve known what would make you do it.’

‘I’m tired, Sophie,’ says Francis, ‘I’m tired of being the last person who cares.’

Sophia sighs. ‘You’re not the last person who cares, Francis. My uncle does.’

‘Franklin?’

Sophia Cracroft comes from a long and unbroken line of Tory Party stalwarts, including John Franklin, Tory Party Chief Whip. Francis has never entirely rid himself of the suspicion that she only ever spared him a second glance because of the look on her uncle’s face.

‘They can sense blood in the water, you know,’ says Sophia.

‘That’s no compliment to your uncle’s nose,’ says Francis, ‘you’d need to be dead not to.’

‘Well, the point is they can,’ says Sophia, ‘including my Uncle John.’

Francis thinks that British politics would be a fuck of a lot more bearable without other people’s Uncles John.

‘John Franklin hasn’t the nous,’ he says, ‘I’d worry if it were your aunt.’

‘You’re not listening,’ says Sophia, ‘I’m not saying Uncle John’s a political mastermind. The point is, he doesn’t have to be. Not right now. Right now, you’re a minority government with no steady allies, and it’s all to play for. You need someone canny in the Chief Whip’s Office, someone thoughtful, someone used to taking garbage orders and making. Them. Work.’

‘Blanky can - ’

‘Blanky’s not Chief Whip material,’ says Sophia, ‘And you know it. He’s a bruiser, a sheepdog. He’s too good at what he does. You’d be throwing him away as Chief Whip.’

‘What are you saying, Sophie?’

‘I’m saying,’ says Sophia, ‘that there’s a chance here for Uncle John to get credit for killing Labour when we both know it’d mainly be death by John Ross.’

‘And so…’

‘We need an adult in the room, Francis,’ says Sophia. ‘And it’s going to have to be you.’

Francis looks at Sophia. ‘That sounded like an order.’

‘That’s just my manner,’ says Sophia, and gets up. ‘I’ve paid your tab.’

* * *

‘So,’ says Francis to Blanky and Ned Little, newly-drafted into the Whips’ Office, ‘here’s where we are. We’ve got 290 seats, the Tories have 270, Lib Dems at 50…’

‘And a whole raft of hanging-and-flogging nutters and vegetarians,’ says Blanky.

‘At the same time?’ says Ned, nervously.

‘Doubt it,’ says Blanky. ‘We’re all up shit creek, though, aye? We’ve got the boat, but they’ve got the paddles.’ To Ned’s worried face, he says ‘there are more of them than there are of us, Ned.’

‘They can only get rid of us with a no-confidence motion, though, right?’ says Ned.

‘Right,’ says Francis, ‘which they can call if we can’t get stuff through the House. Which can happen if…’

‘…They … block us,’ says Ned.

‘Good man,’ says Francis, and watches Ned fidget in relief, ‘which they can more easily do since there are, as Blanky says, more of them than us.’

‘Doesn’t help that there’s so many of us poorly,’ says Blanky, ‘Stockton North’s not looking too clever, and Rochdale’s taken to an ‘orrible ominous cough nowadays, you so much as look sideways at him.’

‘That’s not their names,’ says Ned.

‘Their constituencies, Ned,’ says Francis. ‘You should remember their actual names, of course. You’ll get briefs. We all will – you, me, Blanky. Watch your flock, Ned. Tend to them. Get them in, get them voting, get them voting right, keep them happy.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, taking his list from Francis, ‘keep them happy how?’

‘Oh, all sorts,’ says Blanky, ‘do they want a new chair? A new carpet for the office? If they’re trainspotters, get them onto Transport Committees…’

‘You’re allowed to make promises,’ says Francis, ‘within reason.’

Ned looks a little green. ‘Right.’

Blanky claps him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. Right, Frank, time for pairing?’

‘Pairing?’ says Ned. ‘Oh, where if we’ve got someone who can’t make a vote, their side agrees to have one of theirs sit it out.’

‘And vice versa,’ says Francis. ‘Stockton North and Rochdale. That’s two of our lot, and two of theirs we want sitting out.’

‘Mind, now,’ says Blanky to Ned, ‘we’ll not want to tip our hands, like. Make out it’s no bother to us if we get a pair or not. Let them come to you.’

‘Easy enough with Fitzjames,’ says Francis, ‘fecker’d keel over if his mouth were shut for him.’

‘Deputy Whip for the Tories, right?,’ says Ned. ‘I read about that man he saved from drowning. That was - ’

‘Ah, for Christ’s sake don’t bring it up,’ says Francis, ‘He doesn’t need encouraging. Tenner says he’ll tell the story of how he negotiated the release of those endangered birds caught in that traffic island, Tom.’

Blanky cackles. ‘You’re on. They’re coming to us, aye?’

‘That they are,’ says Francis. There’s a knock at the door and he turns to Blanky and Ned. ‘Ready for the Aristocunts?’


	2. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Chief Adversary is Introduced - Sartorial Histories and Misdemeanours are Discussed - the Merits of Cross-Party Alliances are Disputed - An Offer is Made and Not Immediately Rejected.

‘Did you see Ross on _Newsnight_ with Stanley?’

‘I did,’ says James Fitzjames.

‘Like watching a lion rape a walrus,’ says Henry Thomas Dundas le Vesconte, ‘but in a _bad_ way.’

‘I’m not sure I want you to tell what the good way is,’ says James.

‘There’s clips of the interview on YouTube,’ says Dundy, ‘I like the dubstep remix.’

James laughs and opens the door to the Opposition Whips’ office, where John is conversing with Graham.

‘Good morning, James,’ says John, waving him in, ‘such a bore, all this. I really thought we had them this time.’

‘Nearly, John,’ says James, ‘All it takes is a few stalled bills and we can charge over the top and finish the job.’

‘Quite so,’ says John, ‘it’ll all be over by Christmas.’

 _Where have I heard that before_ , thinks James, but he smiles and ducks his head instead. ‘All over by Christmas.’

Graham makes a rueful clucking noise and says ‘Now, where have I heard that before?’

James’s eyes fly to him, but John is throwing his head back with a rich chortle. ‘Oh, you cheeky bastard,’ he says with delight, and taps Graham on the shoulder with a rolled-up newspaper. ‘What d’you have to say to that, James?’

James schools his face into a smile and a wink thrown to Graham. ‘Rather good, Graham. John, it’s time we were off to the Terrors.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says John. ‘Whom do we need a pair for?’

‘Two,’ says Graham, ‘Battersea has his daughter’s piano recital at Roedean, and Mole Valley’s son is Eton’s opening batsman for the First Eleven match.’

‘We might consider lassoing Mole Valley in, John,’ says James. ‘This is a bit much.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, ‘where would English sporting life be without the Eton and Harrow match?’

‘Nowhere, John,’ says James, ‘and I’d say nothing if it _was_ the Eton and Harrow match. But they’re only playing Marlborough.’

John wavers, but shakes his head. ‘We promised him he could, and I don’t want to risk bad feeling this early in the session.’

‘Quite right,’ James hastens to say, ‘all right, that makes two then.’

‘We’ll let them make the opening bid,’ says John, ‘No need to tip our hands, of course.’

‘Of course, John,’ says James. ‘Might even sneak one past old Crozier, if we’re lucky and it’s the morning after the night before. Doubt he’ll be able to count as far as two.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, ‘you know he’s doing a remarkable job.’

‘A remarkable job staying upright,’ says James, ‘John, he’s a dinosaur. A seventies holdover and a souse to boot.’

‘Who is holding his party together under extremely trying challenges,’ says John.

‘I’ll admit John Ross is a hard pill to swallow,’ says James.

‘A gift to us, though,’ says Graham.

‘But honestly, John, Crozier’d make hard lines for himself whoever was in charge. The self-righteousness alone, God. Every time he looks at me I have to remind myself I’m not actually going to hell just because I wear something slightly nicer than a corduroy suit I pilfered from the bin-bags of the County Down Oxfam. And _I_ only have to put up with it once a week. Christ knows how _they_ stand it.’

‘Be nice, James,’ says John.

‘ _You’re_ far _too_ nice,’ says James, ‘you’ve no need to turn the other cheek to Crozier, John, I swear you love him more than God does.’

‘I’m just saying,’ says John, ‘that we should watch that man, all of us.’

‘I _do_ watch him,’ says James.

‘Yes,’ says John, ‘you do, don’t you.’

* * *

‘Francis,’ says John, as they enter, ‘Blanky. Ah - ’ he blinks genially at the long-lashed newcomer.

‘Ned Little,’ says Francis, ‘Member for Oldham East and Saddleworth.’

‘A pleasure,’ says John. ‘I’m John - ’

‘Member for Louth and Horncastle,’ says Francis.

‘Thank you, Francis. This is Graham Gore, Member for Dudley South, and James Fitzjames, Member for Watford.’

‘Hello,’ says Ned, shaking their hands. ‘That’s – that’s a really nice suit, James.’

‘James,’ says Francis, lips lifting from his teeth in something that James is not going to call a smile, ‘has many a fine suit, eh, James?’

James tenses. ‘I’m sorry if it offends the Socialist Workers’ Union, Francis - ’

‘Eh, but you’re a worker yourself, you,’ says Blanky, with a grin, ‘Our Jimbo’s a tailor.’

‘It’s a long-established bespoke clothier on Savile Row - ’

‘Stitch you up a little bib and tucker for you and your doggie, Ned, have you fit for a garden party at Buckingham Palace in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’

John clears his throat. ‘All right, now that the pleasantries are done with, shall we talk about the second reading of the Pensions Bill?’

‘All right,’ says Francis, ‘the 27th?’

‘Hmmm,’ says John, ‘not sure that works for us, the 27th, and wouldn’t you like the Bill to have more time in Committee?’

‘The bill’s been read once already,’ says Francis, ‘there’s no need.’

‘Perhaps the 29th?’

Francis surveys John. ‘Were you not wanting,’ he says, ‘more time in Committee? How would postponing it achieve that?’

John spreads his hands. ‘I’m only trying to find a solution, Francis.’

‘If it’s only a matter of days,’ says James, ‘when I was with the FCO, we were sent on a delegation to the Export Processing Zone in Chiankiang, and -’

‘This one again,’ says Francis, lifting his eyes to James, ‘you should tell the Birdshit Island story instead, James. That’s a grand tale.’

‘Oi, that’s cheating, you,’ says Blanky, ‘bet’s void.’ He grins at James. ‘We had a tenner on which one of ‘em you’d tell, James.’

James tries to will back the angry circles of red that he knows are forming on his cheeks, and knows from the look of bleary but venomous satisfaction on Francis’s face that he is unsuccessful. He hears Graham clear his throat and say ‘Look, shall we crack on? Which of your lot can’t make it?’

‘On the 27th?’ says Francis, ‘or the 29th?’

Graham glances at John and James. John says ‘Shall we say, for the sake of argument, the 27th?’

‘All right then,’ says Francis, ‘how many do you need?’

‘How many do _you_ need?’ says James.

Francis looks at him. ‘None of your lot need to slip away, then?’

James, thinking again of that blasted Eton-Marlborough match, says ‘I’m sure we could manage to get our chaps in.’ Mole Valley will just have to hope his spawn’s selected for the Eton-Harrow match.

Francis’s eyes narrow to blue slits. ‘ _All_ of your ‘chaps’, then?’

John clears his throat. ‘That’ll do, James, stand easy. Francis, we’d like a pair for two of our lot. Mole Valley and Battersea have … other commitments.’

‘Other commitments, is it,’ says Francis, ‘Is the business of doing what they’re paid for too much of a distraction for them, then? What is it now, a yacht show?’

‘Oh, here we bloody go,’ says James.

‘Now, James - ’

‘You’re only bothering to speak to us because you have people you need paired as well, we all know it. Just because you’ve never missed a Division - ’

Francis’s head shoots up and he levels him with a look. James swallows but raises his chin and continues ‘And that doesn’t make you special. Neither have I.’

‘Neither have you,’ says Francis, softly, ‘in your – what? – three whole years as a Member? And that’s meant to impress me, is it? Jaysus, man, do you want a medal for tying your shoelaces as well?’

There is a silence. Francis’s lip is curled and his eyes are flat and hard on James. Then there’s the sound of rustling paper as Blanky flips open his notebook. ‘If that’s through, then,’ he says, ‘we’ll pair youse with Stockton North and Rochdale.’

‘Splendid,’ says John, ‘a pleasure as always, gentlemen. Are you expecting much turnout your end?’

Francis tenses. ‘We’ll be there.’

‘Of course,’ says John, ‘it’s James’s baby, this bill, isn’t it?’ He laughs gently, a hand on James’s shoulder, and says ‘ _Your_ James, that is. James Ross. How is he keeping?’

‘He’s well,’ says Francis, not looking at them, ‘I’ll tell him you asked after him.’

‘James Ross’s baby,’ says James, watching Francis, ‘and his swan-song. Before he retires into wedded bliss, I believe?’

Francis doesn’t say anything for a while, eyes down on his desk. John says ‘He’ll be missed, of course.’

‘He will indeed,’ says James, and Francis’s head comes up. His eyes are empty and very blue.

‘If that’s all, then,’ he says, ‘I’ll not keep you.’

‘Thank you, then, Francis,’ says John, and they take their leave.

* * *

‘Battersea and Mole Valley will be pleased,’ says John, ‘Good work, gentlemen.’

‘The vote, John,’ says James, ‘There’s a chance here to put pressure on them early. If we block it, that’s a wicket right out of the gate. Hard to recover from a loss that big, this early in the Session.’

‘They’re under pressure already, James,’ says John, ‘288 of them voting on the bill, if Francis can get every one of their boys in except for the two they’ve paired off – which is a big ‘if’. Quite a way off from a majority.’

‘Do we think,’ says Graham, ‘that they might shore up their numbers?’

‘Almost certain they will,’ says James, ‘Blanky’ll be about it now, I expect. Some wheeling and dealing with the Liberal Democrats, some with the Scottish National Party, probably shake down some of the odds and sods…’

‘Yes,’ says John, ‘and that will be their downfall. A deal here, a deal there, a tweak to a policy here, a sop there, and where does it end? It weakens them, James, every time.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says James, ‘but it might help them survive this Division.’

‘Oh, survive,’ says John, ‘survive as what? A dash of Lib. Dem, a splash of SNP, a sprinkling of the odds and sods, all with their fingers in your pie, all whispering in your ear. You might as well not bother with having a party system at all.’

‘Right,’ says James. John claps him on the shoulder and says ‘If you don’t stand for anything, James, what’ll you fall for?’

Graham laughs. So, after a few moments, does James.

* * *

Francis is in the _Red Lion_ a few evenings later, waiting for Blanky. He’s been having a pint or five with the Members for Belfast West and Foyle, trying to cajole them on-side. He’s made some noises about making a push for Irish reunification, though Christ knows if he’s been believed. He paid their tab, which did seem to go some way towards mollifying them, and extracted a promise from them that they’d at least not go waltzing in with the Tories.

Not that the Tories seem to have asked them to dance, reflects Francis with a curl of his lip. John Franklin’s too busy preaching about party unity and party purity to ever dream of reaching out to anyone outside his sacred circle, and Fitzjames – well, if that man has ever bothered to make an approach even once in his charmed fucking life, Francis will eat each one of his ridiculous shoes, soles-first. There’s a craychur’s never needed to do anything but turn up and wait before whatever he’s wanting is placed carefully in his lap.

Christ knows how he’d even go about trying to make a deal, thinks Francis. Probably turn up and expect Belfast West and Foyle to do whatever he asked, just because he was the one asking it. Francis wonders what’d happen if he’d dragged him to a meeting with the Transit Workers’ Union. Probably go down like a cup of cold piss. No chance in hell he’d be making the head of the union double up with laughter, like James had in ten minutes, or –

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared, before a man slides into the seat next to him. He’s a small man, narrow-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with light hair curling slightly as it hits his shoulders and a thin pointy beard.

‘Hello,’ he says. Pleasant voice, Northern accent. ‘You’re Francis Crozier.’

Francis raises his glass. ‘Which paper’s asking, now?’

The man’s eyes widen and then he grins: a quick sharp thing with a momentary flash of dimple. ‘How could you tell?’

Francis shrugs. ‘There’s only two sorts of people know about me: politicians and reporters. You’re not in politics; I don’t recognise you.’

‘You will,’ says the man, ‘in time. My name’s Hickey. Cornelius Hickey.’

‘That’s a mouthful,’ says Francis, ‘you’re right, I’d remember that if I saw it in a byline. And where would I be seeing this byline?’

The dimple appears again, eyes cast down demurely. ‘ _The Daily Mail_.’

Francis looks at him. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘then I’d _not_ be reading it.’

‘I’d not ask you to,’ says Hickey, ‘what papers _do_ you read, Mr Crozier? The _Socialist Worker_? The _Morning Star_?’

Francis snorts. ‘You’d move there if I told you I read it, would you?’

There’s a pause while Hickey looks at him. ‘No,’ he says at length, in the manner of one who was giving the matter serious consideration. ‘I like the _Mail_ , me. My editor gives me rope and a budget, and I can do what I like.’

‘And what is it you like, then, Mr Hickey?’

‘I like people who tell the truth, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey. ‘I don’t like being lied to.’

‘If it’s the truth you’re after, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll find the _Mail_ an uncomfortable place.’

‘I wouldn’t be so quick to say that, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, ‘there’s a lot more lying at the _Independent_ , or the _Guardian_.’

Francis raises an eyebrow. ‘The _Mail’s_ a temple of integrity, then, is it?’

Hickey shrugs. ‘They’re capitalists, Mr Crozier.’

‘If you care enough to know my name,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll know that’s not a selling point to me. Or an answer to my question.’

Hickey grins. ‘They want to flog their tat, Mr Crozier. Same as everyone. They do at the _Guardian_ , or the _Telegraph_ , or wherever else. Oh, they’ll frown and they’ll dither and they’ll tug at themselves, but they’re after the same eyeballs as we are. They’re just not as good at it. We’re all selling, Mr Crozier. Even you.’

Francis raises two fingers and the bartender appears. ‘I’ll have another,’ he says, tapping his glass, ‘and one for Mr Hickey here, so he can insult me the better.’

‘I’ll have what Mr Crozier’s having,’ says Hickey, and picks up the glass when it arrives with careful hands. Francis swallows the first dram and turns in his seat to look at him. ‘You said I was selling, Mr Hickey.’

‘Of course you are,’ says Hickey, staring at him. ‘I’d not be talking to you if you weren’t. You’re selling the Party. You’re selling an idea – to your constituents, to your own members. You’re selling all the time. You’re just not lying to do it.’

Francis turns and looks at his glass. ‘Maybe I should try it,’ he says, ‘try soft-soaping, or lying. Maybe I’d get farther.’

‘It’s a mug’s game, lying,’ says Hickey, ‘People think it’s easier than it is, so they try it. It’s a rarer thing, Mr Crozier, to see that it’s not the easy way at all.’

Francis raises his glass to look at Hickey through it. Oddly refracted, through the base, all nose, then all forehead. ‘That’s the sort of thing I’d expect to read in one of your articles, is it?’

Hickey takes a sip of his whisky, and shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’m good at getting eyeballs, and eyeballs tend not to stick on moral philosophy, Mr Crozier.’

‘And it’s philosophising you’re doing, is it, Mr Hickey?’

‘You didn’t ask me,’ says Hickey, ‘what I’m selling, Mr Crozier.’

Francis shrugs. ‘If you’re wanting to sell it to me, you’ll tell me sooner or later.’

Hickey leans closer. ‘Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘there’s no point your telling the truth if nobody’s listening.’

Francis turns to watch Hickey. ‘Who’s not listening, Mr Hickey?’

‘Them,’ says Hickey. ‘Your John Ross, the others. I can see it, Mr Crozier, Tories, Labour, there’s not an inch of daylight between them. It’s all mealy-mouthed you will, you won’t, you do, you don’t, you may, you might, it’s all different faces saying the same words. They’re afraid of you, because you’re saying different words. You’re not reading off their cheat sheet.’

Francis calls the bartender over again.

‘Same again,’ he says, raising his empty glass, ‘how about you, Mr Hickey?’

‘I’ve still got mine,’ says Hickey, ‘do you agree with me, Mr Crozier?’

Francis shrugs. ‘You’ve been reading other papers than your own, Mr Hickey, fair play to you. It’s not a grand state secret that Labour’s a different thing now than it was in the seventies.’

‘Or the Tories?’

‘Fashions come and go, Mr Hickey. The fashion now’s for white teeth and sharp haircuts and shiny hair and jaws like a fucking shovel. The eyeballs you were talking about, Mr Hickey, that’s where they’re sticking.’

Hickey is watching him, eyes narrow. ‘Who are you talking about, Mr Crozier?’

Francis feels the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘Nobody,’ he says, ‘It’s a type, Mr Hickey, that’s all.’

Hickey keeps his eyes on him before he lowers his head. ‘Fashion, then,’ he says. ‘It’s a fashion for politicians to all look the same and sound the same. And it’s a tricky thing to be out of fashion.’

Francis shrugs. ‘I’ve managed this long, Mr Hickey.’

‘You have,’ says Hickey, ‘but there’s no need, Mr Crozier.’ He leans forward again. ‘I could be useful to you, Mr Crozier.’

Francis catches the bartender’s eye and taps his glass. ‘You going to make me fashionable, Mr Hickey?’

‘Same again for me as well,’ says Hickey to the bartender. ‘No, Mr Crozier, I’ll not make you fashionable. But I told you: I’m good at getting eyeballs on true things.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘Is it an endorsement you’re after offering me, Mr Hickey? Because I don’t want to offend you, man, but a helping hand from the _Mail_ is something I’d have to turn down, even if your lords and masters wanted to go for it.’

Hickey smiles down at his glass, the dimples appearing again. ‘No endorsements, Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘there’s other ways I could help.’

‘You’d not want to be my mouthpiece,’ says Francis, watching him, ‘and again – no offence – I’m not looking for one.’

Hickey’s smile widens. ‘There’s other ways I can help, Mr Crozier.’

‘You like to look mysterious, don’t you,’ says Francis, ‘that either means there’s something you don’t want to tell me, or that you’ve nothing _to_ tell.’

Hickey’s dimple cuts along his cheek. ‘I’ll not lie to you, Mr Crozier, but there’s no reason for me to tell you _everything_.’

‘None at all,’ says Francis, ‘maybe I’ll take a leaf from your book, Mr Hickey. Make out I’ve got a secret. Trick the world.’

‘That’s not your way, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, lifting his eyes to those of Francis with a quick movement of his head.

Francis lifts an eyebrow at him, and is about to reply when there’s a hand on his shoulder. ‘There y’are, Frank,’ says Blanky. ‘Who’s yer friend?’

Francis waves at Hickey. ‘Meet Mr Cornelius Hickey.’ He says in a stage whisper to Blanky ‘ _Daily Mail_.’

‘Christ,’ says Blanky, ‘I’d shake your hand, Mr Hickey, but I’ve not had me ‘flu jabs yet.’ He grins at him. ‘I’ll let you get me a drink, if you like, though. Show there’s no hard feelings, like.’

Hickey smiles. ‘I’d best be off,’ he says, ‘maybe another time, Mr Blanky.’ He turns to Francis. ‘Remember what I said, Mr Crozier.’

‘Odd duck, that one,’ says Blanky, taking the seat he vacated. ‘What did he want?’

Francis shrugs. ‘He was being mysterious,’ he says.

‘That sounds cheerful,’ says Blanky, ‘anything John’s done? Or you?’

‘There’s a vote of confidence, ta very much,’ says Francis, ‘what would I have been doing?’

‘If I knew, I’d not need the bloody _Mail_ to tell me now, would I?’

‘It’s nothing I’ve done,’ says Francis, ‘that I know of. He was saying he could be useful to us.’ He looks down at his glass. ‘Well, to me, anyway.’

‘Kind of him,’ says Blanky, ‘Useful how?’

‘He wouldn’t say. Just a load of chat about truth and eyeballs.’

‘Ominous,’ says Blanky, ‘and about as much use as a jelly dildo.’

‘And about as messy, probably,’ says Francis.

‘And what did he want, anyway, in exchange for his help?’

Francis drains his glass. ‘I never asked him.’

Blanky secures his pint and raises it. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Division means a vote on a motion. The House literally divides into Ayes or Nays and troop down the appropriate corridor so that they can be counted.


	3. Clubs, bills and partisans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Schemes are Afoot - Horizons are Broadened - An Equivocal Relationship is Begun and Another Rekindled - Youthful Indiscretions are Brought to Light - the Appetite of the English Higher Orders for Chastisement is the Agent of Change

‘Well, do _try_ to look pleased about this, won’t you, George?’

George Lyon, the Honourable Member for Meriden and the freshly-minted Shadow Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government, sniffs. ‘I was rather hoping for Foreign…’

‘Now, George,’ says John, ‘it’s the dance, you know, the old up and down.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘and I was rather expecting to be _up_. Communities and Local Government, John, for Christ’s sake. What does it even _mean_.’

‘Here’s a chance to find out,’ says Graham.

‘Buck up, George,’ says John, clapping him on the shoulder, ‘swings and roundabouts, you know.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Meriden, who seems unconvinced, ‘ah well. It’s all moot now, I suppose.’

James leans forward. ‘Why moot?’

‘Well,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘this is all assuming Himself stays on as Leader of the Party.’

James and John exchange a glance. ‘Am I to take it,’ says John, ‘that this is an assumption not everyone in the Party is making?’

‘Oh, come on,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘election loss to a historically unpopular incumbent Labour Party with John Sodding Ross as Prime Minister, Labour straggles in to a minority government, we think ‘Right, we’ve got them on the hop now,’ and then what? They’re getting their bills through. Minority in the House and they’re ramming through!’

‘They’re shoring up their numbers with cross-party alliances,’ says James, not looking at John.

‘Yes, and it weakens them,’ says John, ‘every time, it weakens them.’

‘Well, it’s making us look like a complete bloody shower,’ says the Member for Meriden. ‘Three of their bills now they’ve managed to sail through. Of course there’s mutterings.’

‘Mutterings about - ?’ says James.

‘Oh come off it,’ says the Member for Meriden, ‘You don’t think Himself expects to stay on as leader after all this. Don’t play lily-white with me. You lot must know.’

James and Graham look at John, whose chin lowers to his chest before he raises his head. ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he says, ‘All perfectly par for the course. You attend to your portfolio, George, and don’t pay any attention to gossip.’

‘My portfolio,’ sniffs the Member for Meriden, ‘for all the good it’ll do me.’

‘Yes, well,’ says John, ‘if we all kept our heads down and our powder dry, George, it’s quite possible it wouldn’t be the _Shadow_ Cabinet you were part of, now wouldn’t it?’

The Member for Meriden makes an attempt at looking chastened before he takes his leave. When they’re sure he’s out of earshot, James and Graham hasten to John’s side.

‘Let’s see what we can find out,’ says John. ‘Discreetly. I don’t want to spook the horses.’

* * *

‘Is there going to be a leadership contest?’

James looks at Dundy. ‘Where did you hear this?’

‘Blanky said so,’ says Dundy. ‘Thought you might let a chap in.’

‘Blanky?’

Dundy nods. ‘Spreading it about like a sailor with the clap. Why does the other side know the goods about us before we do?’

_Good question_ , thinks James, but says out loud ‘There _is_ no ‘goods’. Blanky gossips like an old woman, you know that.’

‘Never known him to lie, though,’ says Dundy. ‘So what’s the story, morning glory?’

‘No story,’ says James, shooing him away.

* * *

‘Looks like the horses are spooked already, Chief,’ says Graham, when James tells him and John.

John sighs. ‘Parry’s proving a bit hard to pin down.’

‘He should be back from the _Athenaeum_ now,’ says James, glancing at his watch. ‘There’s a vote on that Appropriations bill.’

‘Very well then,’ says John, ‘Pincer movement. Let’s see if we can get hold of him.’

* * *

‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean, dear boy,’ says William Edward Parry, the Honourable Member for Bath.

James looks at the Member for Bath. As an inveterate teller of stories himself, he knows the face of a man who wants to talk. _Just a little_ , he thinks, _the tiniest push_ …

‘Hmmm,’ says John, ‘well, if you’re sure, Bill - ’

‘Just a moment, John,’ says James, and drops to the floor to fiddle with his shoelaces. _Come on_ , he thinks, _come on, you want to_ …

‘If we _were_ to have a leadership contest,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘don’t you think it might be just what the party needs?’

James straightens up slowly, keeping his eyes on the Member for Bath. John says ‘The Party’s at a delicate juncture at present, Bill. Now hardly seems the time to destabilise us.’

‘Or,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘it is _exactly_ the time. Come on, John, we ought to have romped home this election. There’s not an animal, vegetable or mineral in the country with a kind word to say about John Ross, nor should they. That we managed to lose - ’

‘It was close, Bill - ’

‘Oh, well, then,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Close, my word. Jolly good thing we’re in a political system where ‘close’ gets you bugger-all, isn’t it. Who d’you think we are, John, the Huns? ‘Close’ is all very well for them. They can knit together coalitions with every raving loony who can get three other raving loonies to vote for him. _This_ is England.’

‘The United Kingdom,’ murmurs John.

‘Yes, yes, all right. It’s not as though the Scots or the Welsh or the Northern Bloody Irish have been a blind bit of use to us.’

‘The Northern Irish certainly won’t,’ says James, ‘Labour’s got them all but sewn up. Well, _Crozier_ has.’

‘Yes, thank you, James,’ says John, and James clears his throat and looks at his shoes.

‘In any case,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘we ought to have taken it. That ought to be us across the hall, John, us home and dry and with a majority to boot.’

‘We did them real damage, Bill,’ says John, ‘It’s not as though winning the election’s gotten them so very much.’

‘It’s gotten them enough,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘and that’s another thing. A minority government, John. They ought to be lame. Why aren’t they?’

‘They make deals, Bill,’ says John, ‘it’s unseemly.’

‘Unseemly or not,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘it’s working. We haven’t managed to block a single one of their bills. Not one. Thirty seats short of a majority, and they’re making it look easy.’

There’s a silence before John says ‘Whom are you putting up against him, Bill? Norwich North?’

‘William Beechey?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Maybe.’

‘The Member for Hazel Grove?’

‘George Back,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Interesting. Why, d’you think he’d win?’

‘Yes,’ says John. James and Graham look their assent.

The Member for Bath looks them up and down. ‘Not very loyal to Himself, your lot, are you?’

‘Our loyalty is to the Party, Bill,’ says John, ‘not to any one man.’

‘Glad to hear you say so,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘because we’re thinking of taking a punt on someone else.’

‘A punt?’ says John. ‘On whom?’

‘Holborn and St Pancras,’ says the Member for Bath.

John blinks. ‘Jane?’ he says. ‘ _My_ Jane?’

The Member for Bath grins. ‘More like you’re her John, eh, John?’

‘Jane?’ says John again. ‘Why?’

The Member for Bath shrugs. ‘New ideas,’ he says. ‘Thinking’s getting a bit stale. Might want some shaking up. She’s a sharp one, your Jane. A comer. Nice way with a speech. Knows her way around Radio 4.’

‘Jane,’ says John, the shape of the word sounding uncertain in his mouth.

‘You won’t discuss it with her, of course,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘not till we’ve had a chance to sound her out first.’

John’s chin sinks down to his chest.

‘John?’ says the Member for Bath.

‘Sorry, Bill,’ says John. ‘No, no, of course not. Thank you for the warning, though.’

* * *

‘Of course we’re not serious about her,’ says the Member for Bath to James. They’re having a drink at the _Athenaeum_ , just the two of them, James sinking into a cavernous wingback in front of a crackling fire. ‘Jane Franklin, dear Heaven. Oh, she’s promising all right: plenty of gumption, reminds me of my daughter’s headmistress. But she’s not anywhere near ready for the big one: any of the big ones. Not now. Not yet.’

‘Gosh,’ says James, ‘no, I suppose not.’

‘You do see, don’t you?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Bit of cannon fodder, knock out the chancers and weed out the malcontents, before a proper candidate takes it.’

‘Whom do you have in mind?’

‘Oh, Beechey,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘It’s time, I think.’

‘It’s hard on John,’ says James, watching the Member for Bath, ‘with Jane in the mix. He’s the soul of honour, I know he is, but still it’s a hell of a position to be in.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘that is rather why I thought we might have this chat, the two of us. John can’t know, James. As far as he’s concerned, Jane Franklin is a perfectly viable candidate for Party leader, and that is how it has to remain.’

‘Ah,’ says James, ‘Bill, I’m sure John’s perfectly capable of separating Party business from - ’

‘Wives and sweethearts,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Never may the twain meet. I’m sure you’re right, James, and your loyalty does you credit, of course, but it is, as you say, hard lines on him. Let’s not make it harder, eh?’

‘No,’ says James, ‘you’re quite right, of course.’

‘Good man,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘John Barrow said you were a sound chap.’

_I’ll just bet he did_ , thinks James. He smiles over his glass and ducks his head. ‘He’s been kind to me.’

‘‘Knows when to keep his mouth shut’, he said,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Useful skill.’

‘Thank you,’ says James. ‘Bill, this is terribly flattering, and I can’t thank you enough for putting so much trust in me, but I do have to ask: is _Jane_ making a serious bid herself? Does she know what’s planned for her?’

‘Not in so many words, but,’ the Member for Bath shrugs. ‘She should know enough to make it look good in the first round of votes at least.’

‘And after?’

‘Oh, after,’ says the Member for Bath. ‘After, she’ll go where she’s put if she knows what’s good for her, and I don’t doubt she does. Oh, it’ll be worth her while whatever happens: she gets to make a bit of a splash, some noise about her. She won’t be forgotten either: Beechey’ll be grateful when it’s time to put a Cabinet together. Maybe she’ll fancy Communities and Local Government.’

James smiles. ‘Communities and Local Government was George Lyon’s portfolio. We’ll have to find something for him to do.’

‘Will we?’ says the Member for Bath. ‘Yes, I suppose we will.’

* * *

James lets the smile fall from his lips as he tips his head back. The lighting in the bathroom makes him look alien. Sickly. Ideal breeding ground for a knee-trembler: stumble in, take a look at yourself, feel like shit, grab the nearest warmish body for a quick fumble, for God’s sake don’t look at yourself in the mirror again. Warm amber lighting might predispose you to linger, and we can’t be having that.

‘I know you,’ says a voice next to him. Soft, pleasant, Northern.

James turns to look. Small, head barely scraping James’s shoulder. He’s wearing an overlarge jacket and jeans cuffed over beaten-up boots.

‘Have we met?’ says James, bending his head and manufacturing a broad politician’s smile. This isn’t one of his constituents, is it? Surely not – apart from the accent, the man shrieks London; and not just London, a very specific London. He looks startlingly incongruous in a Soho nightclub loo: James would expect to see him rolling a fag outside a Hoxton millinery-cum-pizza-parlour-cum-performance-art space (Jesus, why did James let Dundy drag him to that place?). Still, may as well check. ‘Do you live in Watford, by any chance?’

The man shakes his head. ‘I’m Eddie.’

‘James,’ says James, and offers his hand to shake. Eddie looks at the hand but doesn’t take it. James waits for a beat or two and then lowers it.

‘You were in the papers,’ says Eddie, ‘you saved that man from drowning.’

‘Ah,’ says James, and smiles, tossing his hair out of his eyes. ‘Oh, gosh, that old thing.’

Eddie’s watching him, head to one side. ‘Jaw like a fucking shovel,’ he says, and a dimple appears in his cheek.

James touches his own jaw. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It really is,’ says the man. It doesn’t sound admiring. More like Eddie’s trying to solve a puzzle and a piece has fallen into place.

James looks at him again. Soft golden hair, pointy beard, blazing dark eyes. He’s not James’s type, but then James’s type hasn’t been doing it for him lately. Might be time to broaden his horizons.

‘You know,’ he says, leaning his hip against the sink, ‘when I jumped into that river to save that poor man, can you guess what I learned?’

Eddie’s looking at him. He’s beginning to smile. James waits for a moment or two before saying ‘Well, can you guess?’

Eddie shakes his head, dimple deepening. James tilts his throat up and says ‘I can hold my breath for a long, long time.’ He throws Eddie a look under his lashes. ‘Comes in handy from time to time.’

Eddie has his hands in his pockets and is studying him. At length he says ‘You’re not my type, you know.’

‘Well, you’re not exactly mine either,’ says James, a little nettled, ‘does that matter?’

Eddie shakes his head. ‘Give me your number, then.’

‘My number?’ The man’s a romantic, after all. How unexpected. ‘I wasn’t really thinking - ’

Eddie sighs, a distinctly put-upon sound, and opens the door to a stall. ‘A quick one, then,’ he says, ‘but I want your number after.’

_Well, I’m broadening my horizons all right_ , thinks James, following him into the stall.

* * *

That night, William Gibson, Administrative Officer attached to the Cabinet Office, receives a call. He stares at the name on the screen for a while before picking up.

‘What do you want, Cornelius?’ he says.

‘I’d like to see you again,’ comes the response.

Billy Gibson snorts. ‘You took a shit in my fridge, Cornelius.’

‘You ratted me out, Billy.’ The voice is mild, even distantly tender.

‘Irving was going to have us both sacked, you know that.’

‘Come off it, Billy, nobody gets sacked in the Civil Service.’

‘You can sack a contractor, Cornelius.’

‘I know, Billy, says Hickey, ‘I know, ‘cause that’s what they did. To me.’ He pauses. ‘You’re all right, though. Got a permanent job and everything.’

‘Only ‘cause I put in for a transfer. I was going somewhere with that job, Cornelius.’

‘You don’t want to be stuck carrying bags and printing papers at the House of Lords, Billy,’ says Hickey. ‘Much more useful where you’re at now.’

‘Useful for you, you mean,’ says Billy. ‘Well, go on, then. What do you want?’

‘You can pull records from the Whips’ Office, can’t you?’

‘Which one?’

‘Opposition,’ says Hickey, ‘for now.’

‘And if I can?’

‘Will you?’

‘Why?’

There’s a silence followed by ‘I’m asking you to.’

Billy leans his forehead against his desk. ‘Why?’

‘I’ll come over on Saturday,’ says Hickey, ‘and I’ll tell you then.’

There’s a pause and then Billy sighs. ‘All right.’

* * *

A few days later, Francis lets himself into the Chief Whips’ office. Tom Jopson, his Executive Officer, is waiting with a mug of coffee.

‘Thanks, Tom,’ says Francis, pulling off his coat. ‘What news from the horse-race across the hall?’

‘John Franklin pledged his support to his wife,’ says Tom.

‘Blanky told me,’ says Francis. ‘The things a man’ll do to keep the peace at home.’

‘It was a hard position for him to be in, sir,’ says Tom.

‘It’s about to be harder,’ says Francis. ‘There’s not a bookie wouldn’t give you sky-high odds on that one.’

‘She’s seen off George Back quite handily,’ says Tom.

‘Very handily,’ says Francis, ‘I’ve met her. Jaysus, but that woman’s terrifying.’

‘They seem to like that, sir,’ says Tom.

‘Of course they bloody do, they’re posh and English,’ says Francis, ‘all they want is to be put across Nanny’s knee. What do you think?’

‘I’m not sure I could say, sir - ’

‘You can, Tom. What do the assistants say?’

Tom smiles demurely. ‘I think she’ll surprise us, sir.’

‘It’s just her and Himself now,’ says Francis, ‘you think she can take out the leader?’

‘I think,’ says Tom again, ‘that she’ll surprise us, sir.’

‘Not you, clearly,’ says Francis with a grin.

The door flies open and Tom Blanky barrels in. ‘Your friend at the _Mail’s_ been busy, Frank,’ he says, slapping down the paper.

‘You’re reading the _Mail_ now, Blanky?’ says Francis, not looking down.

‘Someone has to,’ says Blanky, ‘ever since you got yourself a pet reporter there.’

‘I didn’t do a damn thing,’ says Francis. ‘More like he followed me home and refused to leave.’

‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘he’s left something on your doorstep, any road.’

Francis turns to the page Blanky’s pointing to. The headline yells ‘FITZJAMES IN FITZNETS: MP FLASHES HIS LEGS IN SAUCY DRAG’, and there’s a nearly full-page photo of Fitzjames sprawled on a couch, boa slipping off one shoulder. His head is thrown back, baring that ridiculous throat. He’s wearing a dress – what there is of it, at any rate. The thing’s slit all the way up the thigh, and a very long leg (in, yes, fishnets) is slung over the back of the couch. His eyes are shut and his mouth’s a dark smear on his face.

‘What is this?’ says Francis. He clears his throat. ‘What is this, Blanky?’

Blanky shrugs. ‘Looks like costume. Must’ve been for a play or summat at uni.’ He glances down and wrinkles his nose. ‘School, maybe.’

He does look younger in the photo. The face is a triangle, the hands and feet (Jaysus, those shoes, where did he find them?) look like they’re waiting for the rest of the body to catch up.

‘It’s good to be the King,’ the copy begins, ‘but James Fitzjames, MP for Watford, likes it better as the Queen.’

James was playing something called Queen Fadladinida in some Godawful-looking production at Eton. Jesus, how old had he been? Sixteen? Seventeen?

‘This the sort of thing we can expect from your friend, is it?’ says Blanky.

Francis lifts his head – a curiously hard thing to do – and stares at Blanky. ‘You think I knew about this?’

‘Course not,’ says Blanky, ‘that grubby little shit.’

Francis looks back at the page. The copy has some insinuating text about James’s preference for playing women’s parts and the photo manages to be bootleg-porn-VHS-grainy while simultaneously capturing every detail of the shadow of Fitzjames’s lashes on his cheek and the mark of the fishnets cutting into his long pale thigh.

‘Can’t look at the thing without feeling like a pervert,’ says Blanky.

Francis tries for a smile. ‘You _are_ a pervert,’ he says.

‘I am that,’ says Blanky with a grin.

Francis doesn’t respond. There’s a photo of Fitzjames kneeling on that fucking couch with that fucking dress rucked up around his knees. Giant knobbly knees, sticking out like whorls on an oak, he’s a boy here, a child, all legs and arms and angles and shadows, he grew into those massive fucking paws at some point between now and whenever this photo was taken, those shoulders, Christ. He’s splayed out like a penitent or a –

‘Frank,’ Blanky is saying.

Francis lifts his head. Blanky and Jopson are both looking at him.

‘Posh boys,’ he says, and his voice sounds a little strange to his ears, ‘any excuse to put on a dress, right? He isn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.’

‘Yeah,’ says Blanky, but he’s looking at him narrowly. ‘Posh boys in drag. All there is to it, eh?’

Francis tries to shrug and immediately gives up. He knows what to expect when it comes to drag. Who lives in London without dodging a projectile-vomiting Hooray Henry on a stag do complete with deflating falsies and a cartoon Cupid’s bow lipsticked on and radiating static from a Farah Fawcett wig?

The creature in the photo, on the other hand …

He takes a swallow of his tea.

Tom, watching him closely, says ‘I’ll get you some water, sir.’ He turns on his heel before Francis can say anything, though he’s not entirely sure what. He _would_ like some water. He’ll drink it gratefully when it comes. He’d like to crack open a window, Christ, it’s boiling in here, have Facilities kept the heating on still? He wants –

‘Take this bloody thing away,’ he says, pushing the paper at Blanky.

‘Chuck it away yourself,’ says Blanky. ‘What are you going to tell your little friend, Frank?’

‘He’s not my friend,’ says Francis, ‘and what do you want me to say to him? I didn’t ask him to do this.’

‘I know you didn’t,’ says Blanky, ‘but did you tell him you _didn’t_ want him to do it?’

‘Do what?’ says Francis. ‘I didn’t even know Fitzjames had photos of himself looking like -’ he glances down at the page again and hastily covers it with his fist, ‘ _that_. What would I be telling Hickey?’

‘Your water, sir,’ says Tom at his elbow.

‘Thanks, Tom,’ says Francis. ‘Blanky, you going to tell me to muzzle the _Mail_? They’ll love that.’

‘Not telling you to muzzle anyone,’ says Blanky, ‘just tell your friend thanks, but no thanks.’ He grins. ‘You can tell him you’ll take him to a footie game or summat instead. Get him ice cream afterwards.’

‘Piss off,’ says Francis, aiming a kick at him under the table. Blanky dodges with a cackle.

* * *

‘Well, it’s a good photo of you anyway,’ says Dundy. James shoves him on the shoulder.

_It wasn’t even a good play_ , he thinks. Christ knows _he_ wasn’t any good in it. Some mid-nineteenth-century drivel from some chest-thumping and extremely unlamented sailor whom Dickens had once had a kind word for, and whose great-great-great-great-grandson was in the same year as James. He can barely remember his part now.

What he _can_ remember is the whisper of lace and satin on his midriff, the secret insinuating _shusha-shusha_ of it as he moved, the way it nudged between his thighs, the lattice-marks the tights left on his calves and higher, the scratch of the common-room sofa on his back. He remembers he’d only just managed to get his voice under control, that he’d just – barely – stopped knocking things over and walking into tables and chairs. He remembers that the spots on his jaw and cheek were only just beginning to clear, that he’d acquired shoulders. He remembers the shift of those shoulders and the way they’d pulled at the fabric of the dress.

He remembers that when he put on the dress the first time he tried not to look in the mirror, because for the first time after the agonising kneecapping of puberty, he might – just might – recognise himself.

The next year he played Viola, all gangling and trembling and swagger and equivocation in her ‘masculine usurped attire’.

He’d tried out for Olivia.

* * *

‘Right, so that’s Dulwich and West Norwood, North Durham, Newcastle upon Tyne Central and Wentworth and Dearne can’t make it,’ says Blanky. ‘We need pairs for ‘em all.’

‘Four?’ says John. ‘Goodness, that’s a bit worrying, isn’t it?’

‘Nothing contagious, I hope?’ says Fitzjames, smiling sweetly and making a giant production of his sodding lashes.

‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Jim,’ says Blanky.

‘One might wonder,’ says Fitzjames, ‘why we should be sending so many of our guys home simply because your lot can’t seem to get their act together.’

‘Dulwich and West Norwood is recovering from surgery,’ says Francis, ‘North Durham has chemo, and Newcastle upon Tyne Central and Wentworth and Dearne have to go to a funeral. The same one, if that matters.’

The smirk’s wiped clean off Fitzjames’s face. ‘Oh.’

‘Oh,’ says Francis, ‘any more questions?’

Fitzjames’s eyes fall and then he stills. ‘Oh,’ he says in a very different tone of voice, ‘oh, for God’s sake, Francis.’

Francis frowns and looks down – at his desk, with the _Daily_ Fucking _Mail_ open at that fucking page.

‘The _Mail_?’ says Fitzjames. ‘I honestly didn’t expect it of you.’

Blanky shoots Francis a look and tries to intervene, but Fitzjames is well off. ‘It’s so bloody typical: all that finger-wagging, purer than the driven snow, Saint Francis of the Picket Line, but when it comes to rubbernecking you’ll be first in line with your _News of the World_ subscription and the _Sun_ burning a hole in your pocket.’

‘Now, James,’ says John, and ‘For fuck’s sake,’ says Francis.

‘Well, go on then,’ says Fitzjames. His cheeks are pink and he looks ready to either upturn Francis’s desk or flounce out. ‘You’ve had your gawp. Take your best shot. Ready, aim, fire.’

Fire? Francis thinks _He’s bloody milking it, the worst thing that’s ever happened to the Golden Boy and it’s one pissweak smear in a tabloid_ and _Jesus fuck why didn’t I throw the fecking thing away_ and _You have a snaggle-tooth or you used to have one and now I know it_ and _I need to ask Facilities to turn down the heating in here, Princess Fitzjames is pink as well, look_ and _the reason I know about that snaggle-tooth is because you’re biting your lip in that fucking photo_ and _Christ, I need a drink_.

He says ‘Jaysus, Fitzjames, give it a rest. It’s not news to the rest of us that you tarted yourself up for the benefit of a bunch of chinless Eton twats.’

There's a silence in which he sees Fitzjames's eyes flicker and his shoulders fall - a moment so brief he wonders if he's imagined it - before his chin lifts. Then there's a 'Now, Francis' from John, and then Blanky says ‘Nowt wrong with a bit of tarting. If I looked like that in a dress, I’d not take it off.’

Francis looks at Blanky with an ancient and familiar gratitude and manages ‘Good thing you don’t, then.’

‘I might yet, I’ve not tried,’ says Blanky. ‘I’d not shave me legs, though, mind. My Essie likes the natural look.’

‘How _is_ Esther?’ says John, and the next few minutes Francis allows to wash over him while he stares in front of him and very resolutely not at anyone or anything in the room.

* * *

‘Jane Franklin is the new Leader of the Party,’ says John to the Member for Bath, who is sitting very still, ‘congratulations, Bill, your dark horse romped home.’

‘Christ,’ says the Member for Bath.

‘We’ve been polling the Members,’ says Graham, ‘Informally, just a chat, you know. I suppose nobody ever thought she’d make it, so they thought it was safe to register a little protest by voting for her, because surely everyone else would be voting for Himself. And now - ’

‘You’ve done well for yourself out of this,’ says the Member for Bath, looking at John.

‘The Party’s done well for itself, Bill,’ says John. ‘Janie’ll surprise you.’

‘Yes,’ says the Member for Bath, ‘Yes, I suppose she will.’

* * *

‘The Lady wants to see you,’ says Jane Franklin’s Executive Officer to James.

‘Yes, of course,’ says James, ‘the Whips were just on our way to pay a visit - ’

‘Not the Whips,’ says the EO, ‘you.’

James straightens his tie and hair, grabs his Moleskine, and follows.

‘James,’ says the Right Honourable Member for Holborn and St Pancras, Leader of the Opposition, rising to shake his hand, ‘how are you? Goodness, it’s been ages.’

‘It really has,’ says James, ‘Congratulations, Jane.’

‘Oh, that,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘well, the Party wanted change.' She smiles. ‘The Party’s going to get it.’

‘Sounds exciting,’ says James.

‘I hope so,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘now, James, you’ll be wondering why I asked to speak with you alone.’

‘I’m always pleased to speak with you, Jane,’ says James, and smiles.

‘So glad to hear it,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘because we will be working closely together, you and I.’

‘The Whips’ Office, of course - ’

‘The Whips’ Office, of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘with you as Chief Whip.’

James blinks. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Oh, don’t apologise, it’s common,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘you heard me. I want you as my Chief Whip.’

‘Jane, John’s the Chief Whip.’

‘John,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘pledged his personal support to one of the candidates in the leadership election. That is a particularly serious breach for the Whips’ Office. You’re meant to stay above the fray, the pack of you. That’s how this works, James.’

‘Well, yes,’ says James, ‘but – Jane, the candidate he pledged his support to was _you_.’

‘I’m glad of his support,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but he oughtn’t to have gotten involved at all. Tea?’

While her EO fetches them tea, the Leader of the Opposition touches James’s knee, a quick firm grasp before sitting back. ‘Don’t worry about John, James. We’ve plans for him in the Other Place. Lord Franklin. Nice little ring to it.’

‘So it does,’ says James.

‘ _Much_ better place for him,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, and James wouldn’t disagree even if he could.

‘It’s richly-deserved,’ he says quickly, taking his tea.

‘Thank you, James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘so you’ll see why I’m bringing you on.’

‘And I’m terribly flattered,’ says James.

‘It’s a bit quick for you, of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘but John Barrow speaks highly of you.’

‘He’s kind to me,’ says James, and sips at his tea.

‘We have an opportunity here, James,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘Labour. We can finish them. They haven’t got the numbers.’

‘They shore them up,’ says James, watching the Leader of the Opposition, ‘with cross-party deals.’

‘Yes,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Now, I know John’s not been keen on reaching across party lines in the past.’

‘No,’ says James, ‘but I really do think - ’

‘Yes,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘I release you from your bonds, James. Go forth and multiply.’

James breathes out. ‘Thank you, Jane,’ he says.

‘You’re hungry,’ says the Leader of the Opposition, ‘I like that.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Nasty business about that _Mail_ article.’

James puts down his teacup and squares his shoulders. ‘Jane, I’m so sorry about - ’

‘Grimy little pimp, that Hickey,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘It was a play, good heavens. _Someone_ had to pull on the petticoats. You were just being a good sport.’

James thinks of the first time he let himself look in the mirror with the dress on. That ancient grimy mirror, the hoods and the shadows and the brightness of his own eyes. The words _tarted yourself up_ appear in his mind. He pulls both corners of his mouth up to the exact same height and looks back at the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Someone had to do it,’ he says. A good sport. _For the benefit of a bunch of chinless Eton twats_ , _was it, Francis_?

‘Of course,’ says the Leader of the Opposition. ‘Such a fuss. Well, nobody’ll remember or care about that squalid little story if there’s a Vote of No-Confidence, will they?’

‘Better get cracking, then,’ says James. 

* * *

Soho, again. A voice at James’s elbow, again.

‘Eddie,’ says James.

Eddie smiles, and James thinks he smiles like someone who’s seen other people smile but never understood why they might do it. ‘Tried your number.’

‘Did you?’ says James. They’ve not spoken since possibly the most perfunctory ten minutes of his life. Eddie’d sucked cock like a builder plastering over a hole in a wall before lunch: efficient but joyless. When James had offered to reciprocate he’d asked instead, again, for his number.

Eddie shrugs and looks away. ‘Well?’

James considers him. ‘Have you seen the _Mail_?’

Eddie looks back at him. ‘Should I have?’

James shakes his head and calls the bartender over. ‘Get this man a drink.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is accompanied by a fake Daily Mail news spread (NSFW), because I researched Mail headlines for this chapter and I really don't see why I should suffer alone. VIewable on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/post/637978120623964160/two-houses-alike-in-indignity-chapter-1) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery/status/1347993677566767106?s=20).
> 
> First one who guesses which of the headlines are real gets Points.


	4. This trick may chance to scathe you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Predilections are Revealed to the Surprise of Only One - An Inadequate Chastisement is Attempted - A Message is Delivered and a Pun is Achieved.

‘I mean, Chief Whip, Tom, really.’

Francis and Blanky are in the Marquis of Granby, where they have been propping up the bar for the past three hours. The Granby’s full, and there’s a weekend clatter, which is why Francis’s voice is raised even with Blanky right next to him. They’ve also had their elbows jogged and their drinks spilled, which is why Francis has a hand on Blanky’s shoulder. To steady Blanky. No other reason.

‘He was Deputy Whip, Francis,’ says Blanky, ‘nowt so strange about a promotion if Franklin couldn’t stick on.’

‘Three years,’ says Francis, ‘Jaysus, Tom, three years. Three years is all it took for the fecker to get the job. How long were we in the office before the Chief Whip moved on and we got a nod up?’

‘Eh, t’gaffer was in the saddle for a good while, you know that,’ says Blanky, ‘and he never mucked about with backing horses in leadership races. Kept his head down and did the job. Not Fitzjames’s fault Franklin didn’t do the same.’

‘Boy gets a career gift-wrapped,’ says Francis, ‘John Barrow greasing the wheel for him - ’

‘That’s former Prime Minister John Barrow to you,’ says Blanky.

‘ - Mates with George Barrow - ’

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ says Blanky with a cackle.

‘The pig-fucker George Barrow,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, how far you think _we’d_ get with something like _that_ hanging around our necks?’

‘It’s only a rumour about George Barrow and the pig,’ says Blanky with a shrug, ‘sort of thing they get up to at that club, eh? Nobody’s ever confirmed it.’

‘Nobody’s denied it either,’ says Francis.

‘They’d be daft to,’ says Blanky, ‘That’s when I’d start believing the story, me.’

Francis acknowledges the point and raps the counter for another. Blanky frowns and says ‘Frank, d’you think - ’

‘Fucking stitch-up,’ says Francis, ‘his legs were all over the _Mail_.’

‘Nine days’ wonder,’ says Blanky, ‘Nobody _else_ is talking about it anymore.’ He shoots Francis a look and Francis huffs.

‘While wearing a _dress_ ,’ says Francis. ‘Christ.’

‘He was a nipper,’ says Blanky, ‘it was a school sodding play. The _Mail_ made it sound like that’s his officewear, but that’s the _Mail_.’

‘It’s not about that,’ says Francis, ‘Jaysus, let the bastard wear a dress, who cares - ’

‘… that a rhetorical question, is it - ’

‘I’m just saying,’ says Francis, raising his glass, ‘if that had happened to us, we’d be banjaxed. There’s not a chance in the world we’d get away with having our legs all over the _Mail_ without being shuffled off somewhere in the absolute arse-end of the backbenches till it was safe.’

Blanky shrugs.

‘Leave alone fall arse-backwards into a bloody _promotion_.’

‘Speak for yourself, you,’ says Blanky, ‘if they’d seen _my_ legs in a dress, they’d have made me Prime Minister by now.’

Francis chuckles into his drink. ‘Couldn’t be worse than High and Mighty up there.’ He groans. ‘Ah, Jaysus, the new Works Bill.’

John Ross, presented with irrefutable evidence that his programme of public spending cuts had hit working families (particularly single working mothers) disproportionately hard, had reacted in entirely predictable fashion: by insisting that the problem was a) messaging, b) the wrong sort of austerity, c) insufficient austerity. The new Public Works bill was going to give jobseekers’ benefits and Legal Aid a spanking that would make the most zealous Soho kink club purse their lips.

Blanky winces in sympathy. ‘Happen I might need to get me legs out after all.’

‘Should’ve thought of it before, ‘says Francis, ‘Why don’t you give it a go, then?’

‘Might do,’ says Blanky, ‘still have your tame _Mail_ reporter on call?’

Francis throws him a look. Blanky continues ‘You brought him to heel yet?’

‘I have not,’ says Francis, ‘because he’s not _my_ tame anything. I’m not telling the press what to print or not print, Blanky, Christ.’

‘Have it your way,’ says Blanky, ‘but that one’s a nasty little shit, mark my words.’

‘A nasty little shit he might be,’ says Francis, ‘a nasty little shit he _is_ , but he’s his own nasty little shit.’

Blanky cocks an eyebrow and downs his drink.

* * *

‘So, the fifteenth for the Works Bill?’

Francis nods.

‘Should be a fun one,’ says Henry Thomas Dundas le Vesconte, newly-minted member of the Opposition Whips’ Office.

‘One half-hearted gesture at fiscal responsibility,’ says Fitzjames.

Francis snorts. ‘Christ, man, the bill’s costing working men and women a hundred pounds a month. Each. Will that not do for you?’

‘Please,’ says Fitzjames, ‘it was taxpayers who were paying for your giant civil service salary bloats - ’

‘Not working men and - ’

‘Oh, do give it a rest,’ says Fitzjames, ‘so pious, you and your ‘working men and women’. You and your solicitor father, John Ross with his Kirkcaldy castle, James Ross one heart attack away from a baronetcy. Your Shadow Chancellor’s fresh from the Kennedy School of Government.’ He pauses. ‘Harvard, Francis.’

‘I’m aware,’ says Francis with gritted teeth.

‘You’re bristling with Hampstead Marxists and champagne socialists. All of you hectoring straight white men.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow and sweeps his eye across the Opposition Whips. ‘And you’re a den of diversity over at the Tories, are you.’

Fitzjames flushes. ‘Well, we’ve got a woman leader, which is more than Labour can say or will be able to say for twenty solid years. And she’s not our first.’

‘She’s fixing to be your last,’ mutters Blanky, ‘there’s a lady’s not for turning, all right.’

‘What about the lot of you?’ says Francis, gesturing at them, ‘there one of the pack of you didn’t go to the Lily-White Straight Bullingdon Borstal?’

‘I wasn’t a member of the Bullingdon club, no,’ says Fitzjames, ‘and what do you mean, straight?’

‘What do you mean, what do I mean,’ says Francis, ‘Straight. Heterosexual. ‘Hectoring straight white men’ you said, so - ’

‘Yes,’ says Fitzjames, ‘but I’m not.’

There is a silence. Francis can hear his own brain screech to an abrupt and complete halt, before leaping back into action only to goad his involuntary muscular functions into gear. He can hear every individual thump of his heart, so loud he swallows to force the thing back into his chest.

The gulp he makes sounds very loud in his ears too.

‘You’re gay?’ he says.

Fitzjames has gone a very dark pink. ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I thought – I mean, I’m out.’

Francis’s eyes seek Blanky’s. He doesn’t mean to look accusing, but he must do because Blanky says immediately ‘It’s not a secret, Frank.’

Fitzjames says ‘I thought you’d have a file on me.’

A file? Blanky probably does, he’s got one on everyone. He’s likely got one on _Francis_. Miserable fuck, drinks too much, took up with that Tory bird, got given the push by the Tory bird, what else is new.

What would Fitzjames’s file say? Francis can think of a few things (Francis can think of _quite_ a few things). He could ask Blanky what’s in the file. He could, but he can see, with crystalline and nightmarish clarity, Blanky’s face if he did ask. More to the point, he can hear what he’d say.

He says ‘Fitzjames, we’d only bother to keep a file on anyone we needed to watch out for.’

Fitzjames’s lips tighten, and Blanky leans forward. ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘who’ve you got needing pairing, then?’

* * *

‘Thank you so much for coming.’

Ned Little fidgets in his chair – a cavernous wingback in the Members’ Dining Room designed for nodding off over the _Times_ , or _Independent_ , or poison of choice; for conspiratorial whispers and for eavesdropping. He thought it might be nice for a rising star backbencher to be invited into this august and high-domed sanctum. ‘Bit of the old shock and awful,’ Blanky had said, ‘but in a nice way.’

Now, sitting opposite Silna, the Member for Coventry West, he is beginning to have second thoughts.

‘What would you like?’ he says, pushing the menu towards her. ‘The Lapsang’s really quite special, you know, first-growth from this plantation that’s been supplying Westminster since - ’

‘1840,’ says Silna.

‘Yes, that’s right!’ Ned relaxes, maybe this wasn’t such a –

‘Through the East India Company,’ says Silna.

‘Well, yes, but - ’

‘During the First Opium War,’ says Silna.

Ah.

‘I’ll let you have a browse,’ says Ned.

‘Builder’s is fine,’ says Silna, handing the menu to the waiter without looking at it.

‘The same for me,’ says Ned, whose stomach is already beginning to curl in on itself in protest.

‘Very good, sir,’ says the waiter. He says nothing else, and says it loudly.

‘Anyway,’ says Ned, ‘thank you so much for making the time, Silna.’

‘It didn’t sound like I had much of a choice,’ says Silna.

‘Yes,’ says Ned, ‘well. I wanted – _we_ wanted – to just. Have a little chat. You know. A little feedback.’

‘From whom?’

‘From us,’ says Ned, ‘the Whips’ office.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘It’s nothing bad, of course, just – we’ve observed a few things, and – well – we thought. You know. Some feedback.’

Silna says nothing. The tea arrives, and Ned watches Silna take a sip. She puts her cup down and continues to regard him. Ned moistens his lips and coughs.

‘So,’ he says, ‘you know, of course, Silna, that we’re hung. Us. In Government.’

Silna says nothing.

‘So it’s difficult getting stuff through the House, being a minority government.’

Silna takes another sip of her tea and says nothing.

‘So we really do need all hands on deck. For every Bill.’

Silna says nothing.

‘That’s quite important,’ says Ned. He takes a sip of his tea and instantly regrets it.

Silna says nothing.

‘It’s _really_ important,’ says Ned.

‘Important for whom?’ says Silna.

Ned blinks. ‘Us! The Government.’ He licks his lips and adds the hopefully unnecessary reminder ‘Labour.’

Silna says nothing. Ned takes another ill-advised swallow of his horrible stewed Builder’s brew and chokes. Silna hands him a napkin in silence. Ned dabs at his mouth and says ‘Well. Anyway. We’ve noticed a few – abstentions – from you. On the Transport bill, for example? And then – well – you say you’re voting _against_ the Works bill.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘And – well – that’s hard, being in the minority. As I said.’

Silna says nothing. Ned swipes his lip with his tongue once, quickly, and leans forward. ‘And – well – you certainly have a gift for – well, for taking people with you. The – there’s younger MPs, who seem to – you’ve quite a following. Even outside the Party. Harry Goodsir from the Green Party, for one.’

Silna says nothing. Ned says ‘So, you see, we have to be on the watch for - ’

‘Watch for what?’ says Silna.

Ned takes a hasty swallow of his tea.

‘The Bill didn’t work for me,’ says Silna.

Ned blinks. ‘What?’

‘Or my constituents,’ says Silna. ‘The Bill didn’t work for us.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, ‘well - ’

‘Factory shutdowns,’ says Silna, ‘post office closures. Family incomes 20% lower than the UK average. You have to drive forty-five minutes to get to a midwife, it’s an hour’s wait at the GPs, and now you’re shutting down primary schools as well.’

‘Yes,’ says Ned, ‘but - ’

‘So,’ says Silna, ‘I’m not going to try to sell that to them. Because I would be lying to them. And I’m not going to pretend I think your Bill’s anything more than daylight robbery of the working class, because that would be lying to them as well.’

Ned swallows. He says ‘You could just abstain from voting.’

Silna says ‘That would be pretending I don’t care one way or the other about the bill.’

‘And that would be a lie,’ says Ned, numbly.

Silna inclines her head. She drains her cup and stands up. ‘Ta for the tea,’ she says, and walks to the door.

‘Ah, Silna,’ says Fitzjames, approaching her with outstretched hand.

‘Piss off,’ she says without a break in her stride.

* * *

The Works Bill squeaks through to a second Reading in the House even despite Silna and her groupies, mainly by dint of Blanky wheeling in two Members for the vote hours after non-elective surgery, and Francis promising the Member for Ashton-under-Lyne one of those wanky stand-up desks for his office, Christ.

Francis is in the Red Lion again. He and Blanky had gone there to make faces as they suck down pint after pint of London Pride. Blanky’s disappeared off home, and Francis has moved on to the whisky.

‘Hello, Mr Crozier.’

Francis turns to find a familiar narrow face dimpling at him.

‘Mr Hickey,’ he says.

Hickey slides into the seat next to him. ‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ he says to the bartender, and watches Francis with a bright dark eye until his drink arrives.

‘Have you had a glance at the _Mail_ in the last couple of weeks, Mr Crozier?’ he says, after taking a sip.

Francis looks down at his drink and considers his options. A part of him wants very badly to say no. It doesn’t matter if he’s convincing; all he needs is to deliver a solid rebuff, or at the very least to let Hickey know that he can do whatever the fuck he wants, but if he’s thinking he has Francis in the viewing gallery cheering him on, then he needs to get another think coming. And why the fuck would he be looking at the _Mail_ , anyway? He wouldn’t even have seen it that one time if it hadn’t been for Blanky. Blanky, who’s fucked off home and left him with the beginning of a headache starting at the back of his teeth and a world that is already pale green and fuzzy at the outlines and the pointy beard and shimmering intent gaze of Cornelius Hickey.

Fuck it. ‘I have,’ he says.

‘The one with Fitzjames?’

Off with the Band-Aid. ‘That one.’

Hickey’s whole face brightens, a pale focussed radiance. ‘Pretty little dollybird, weren’t he?’

Francis drains his glass in three burning swallows and raises two fingers to summon the bartender. He’s feeling queasy. He’s not expected to answer, is he?

Hickey goes on with a slow reminiscent smile ‘Queen Fadlandinida. The things they come up with, those posh boys.’

Francis says nothing.

‘They wanted me to caption that picture ‘Queen FAGlandinida’, you know, Mr Crozier. They thought ‘Bit cheeky, make the punters sit up, push the boat out a bit, might get away with it.’’

Francis takes a swallow and says ‘And you didn’t think you could? Get away with it?’

‘No,’ says Hickey, quietly, ‘I thought we _could_. I didn’t _want_ to.’

There’s a pause. Francis raises his head to say ‘You’re wanting a medal for that, are you?’

Hickey shakes his head, dimple reappearing. ‘Us poofters've got to stick together.'

Ah. 'Not enough not to print the article, obviously.'

Another dimple. another shake of the head. 'The _Mail_ 's a newspaper, Mr Crozier.'

'Debatable,' sys Francis.

Hickey twinkles at him over his glass. 'What I mean is: no point shouting about something everyone knows already, Mr Crozier. It’s not news that Fitzjames is queer.’

_Only to me_ , thinks Francis as he stares down into his glass.

‘I mean, he doesn’t make a secret of it,’ says Hickey. ‘No, that’s not one of his secrets. He’s got them, though, Mr Crozier.’

Francis says nothing, swirling his whisky from one side of the glass to the other. Hickey continues ‘Ever noticed that about people who want you to look at them, Mr Crozier? They only ever want you to look at the bits they want to show you. And that Mr Fitzjames, that’s a man wants to be looked at something awful.’

‘You’re interested in Fitzjames,’ says Francis.

‘Him?’ says Hickey, ‘not him, no.’

Francis doesn’t ask _Who, then?_ Hickey says ‘He’s not interesting, Mr Crozier. We both know that, don’t we?’

Francis doesn’t answer. Hickey says ‘It’s just – he’s got a thing or two he doesn’t want known, and I’ve told you, Mr Crozier. I’m good at getting people to look at true things.’

Francis says nothing. He can feel Hickey’s eyes on him as he says ‘Dunno what kind of true things, or who’s gonna have a useful true thing to look at. But something’ll turn up, or I’ll make it turn up.’

Francis says ‘Careful, Mr Hickey. I’ll not be an accessory to whatever you’re confessing.’

Hickey smiles. ‘No confession, Mr Crozier. I come by a thing or two, I use them when I need to.’ He leans in and says ‘it’s about when to use them.’

‘The ‘thing or two’ you come by,’ says Francis.

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, you talk a powerful game, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, and tips his glass. ‘I’ll give you that for nothing.’

‘I can back it up, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, watching Francis.

Francis shrugs. Jubilee line was fucked this morning, but it should probably be up and running by now, if he settles up now he’ll be able to watch _Newsnight_ with Neptune, and there’s a half-bottle of the Jameson under the sink still, he thinks.

‘I’ll send you a message,’ Hickey is saying, ‘on Fitzjames. Just to remember me by.’

Francis stuffs his arms into the sleeves of his coat and gets to his feet. He waits, hands on the counter, for the room to steady before straightening.

‘All right, Mr Crozier?’

‘Good night, Mr Hickey,’ says Francis, and leaves.

* * *

‘All right, we’ll have Ashton-under-Lyne sit out for Mole Valley, then,’ says Blanky.

‘Thank you, Tom,’ says Fitzjames. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip. They’re in the throes of an Indian Summer, a last burst of warmth before autumn sets in, but Facilities has stubbornly refused to switch off the heating.

‘Feeling it a bit, eh, Jimbo?’ says Blanky.

‘Not a bit of it,’ says Fitzjames, stoutly.

‘That jumper can’t help,’ says Blanky, and indeed Fitzjames is wearing a close-fitting turtleneck under his jacket. ‘I know you buggers are out in the cold politically, didn’t know the bleeding weather’s different across the hall as well.’

‘Very good, Tom,’ says Fitzjames, smiling with his lips closed. ‘Gentlemen, if we’re done - ?’

‘It _is_ warm for a turtleneck,’ says Francis. ‘Something on your neck you don’t want us to see, maybe?’

He feels Blanky shoot him a look, and Fitzjames stiffens – the barest moment, but Francis sees it – before saying with a sniff ‘I don’t see how it’s any of your business. Honestly, the pair of you - ’

‘A mark, maybe?’

‘Gossipping like thirteen-year-old-girls - ’

A message on Fitzjames, Hickey had said. He'd thought 'on' as in 'about', but Jaysus. Hickey attaching himself to that long white throat with his sharp little teeth, beard scraping the skin –

‘Christ,’ he hears himself say, ‘you eejit. You fucking eejit.’

‘Ex _cuse_ me?’ he hears, Fitzjames’s voice ringing with disbelief, and he hears Blanky’s ‘Frank.’ Fitzjames’s head thrown back like in that wretched bloody _Daily Mail_ spread, offering himself up for Hickey’s tongue and teeth and lips –

‘Could you not have – of all the fucking papers, the fucking _Mail_ , Jaysus, Fitzjames.’

‘Francis, what the _hell_ are you talking about?’

‘The man who gave you that,’ says Francis, jabbing his finger at Fitzjames, ‘that _thing_ on your neck. That was Cornelius Hickey.’

‘ _What_?’

‘Hickey, from the Mail.’ He looks at Fitzjames’s face and adds ‘the one who wrote that article about your dress-up in school.’

‘ _Hickey_?’

‘Hickey,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, at least tell me you made him work for it.’ His lips pull back from his teeth. ‘Ach, don’t, I’ll not be lied to.’

Fitzjames, having first flushed a furious scarlet, has now gone very pale. He says ‘How did you know?’

‘How did I know? He told me he’d do it. How was I to know he could actually – get to you. Jesus, Fitzjames, if you had to take up with someone - ’

He stops, and it’s probably for the best, because Blanky has a hand on his shoulder and Fitzjames is saying ‘He _told_ you he’d do it?’

Francis feels his cheeks heating. ‘Not in so many – I didn’t know what he’d actually _do_.’

‘All of it?’ Fitzjames’s eyes are burning. ‘The article about me at school?’

‘What? No, Christ, I’d no idea he’d - ’

‘You’re talking to the _Mail_? About me?’

‘No!’ Francis slams his hands down on his desk, and Fitzjames starts a little at the noise, but keeps his eyes on Francis. ‘The fecker was trying something, God knows what. I haven’t been talking about you. Not to the _Mail_ , not to anyone. Christ, why would I?’

He can see Fitzjames’s eyes snap before they dim. ‘Why would you indeed,’ he says. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Small, blonde, Northern, pointy beard?’

Fitzjames winces. ‘God. Why would he - ’

‘Fuck knows,’ says Blanky, getting between Fitzjames and Francis, ‘best not give him a kicking if he’s press, though, sadly. I wouldn’t blame you for being tempted, mind.’

Blanky bustles them out - Fitzjames throws Francis a very long look before he leaves - and then shuts the door and advances on Francis. ‘You’ve been having some chat with Hickey, then.’

Francis groans. ‘Do we have to do this now, Tom?’

‘When else?’ says Blanky, ‘before there’s a front-page spread of whichever poor fucker Hickey thinks is doing you down?’

Francis looks away. Fitzjames’s face, shocked and pale, is an insistent image, the thread of bewildered hurt in his voice hard to banish. ‘Fitzjames can look after himself.’

‘He can,’ says Blanky, ‘ _he’s_ not who I’m worried about. Frank, tell Hickey you don’t want whatever help he thinks he’s giving you.’

‘I’ve never told him to do a thing,’ says Francis.

‘I know that,’ says Blanky, ‘but _he_ thinks you are.’

‘Well, then he’s delusional,’ says Francis, ‘and that is not my problem.’

‘It may not be your _fault_ ,’ says Blanky, ‘but he’ll make it your _problem_ , soon enough.’ 

* * *

A few weeks later and the summer’s abruptly vanished behind bruised-looking skies and rattling nor-easterly winds – just in time for Facilities to turn off the heating. Silna’s been doing the rounds, popping up on Radio 4, LBC and Channel 4 and being ferociously frank about the Works Bill. Ned was dispatched to give her another chat, and returned with every individual eyelash drooping in a different direction. Francis is going to need to bring her in for a talk, and Christ. What would he even say.

Francis hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Hickey, and meetings with the Opposition Whips have largely consisted of long pauses filled with chatter from Blanky, Dundy and Gore. Fitzjames’s baritone cuts in from time to time, but Francis looks intently at his desk.

James and Ann have a baby on the way, and James has announced that he’s planning on doing some consulting for the _Institute for Economic Affairs_ , working from home after Ann’s maternity leave’s done. The _Guardian_ ’s cooing over the new masculinity he models, there are photos of him in jumpers and Ann wearing a bump and the proverbial glow. There they are in the _Observer_ in their Blackheath home, standing in front of the fireplace with the salvaged Edwardian tiles that Francis helped to fix. They’re staring into each other’s eyes, James’s hair haloed against the wall: the same magnolia wall that Francis helped to paint.

Francis congratulates James and Ann. His presence at tea has been demanded, and he’s made an excuse. The Works Bill, he says. He’s going to have to bribe and sweet-talk and threaten to squeak the thing past the finishing-line. No rest for the wicked, he says. Once they’re done with the Session, he says.

‘I’m getting Tom on the bell,’ says James, ‘He’s been around, and we've talked about this. You're becoming a hermit, old man. I’m going to shovel tea and crumpets down your throat if we have to kidnap you to do it.’

Francis smiles. ‘I’ll dob you in if you do. How’d that look? Labour MP, wanted for conspiracy to kidnap.’

James laughs. ‘ _Former_ Labour MP.’

Francis’s smile freezes before he pins it back on. ‘Right. Well, in that case.’

He looks happy. James looks happy. So happy, Christ. He’s going to be a wonderful father.

The door to the office slams open and Blanky walks in with a newspaper under his arm. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and Francis sits up at the way he’s holding his mouth.

‘What is it?’

Blanky throws the paper on the desk. Francis spots that distinctive header. His heartrate picks up – ah, Christ, what now? He shuts his eyes briefly and looks up at Blanky. ‘Not the _Mail_ again. Tom - ’

‘Your boy’s gone rogue, Frank,’ says Blanky.

Francis manages a shrug. ‘Look, I warned Fitzjames,’ he says. He thinks of the gleam of Hickey's teeth, of the bob of Fitzjames's Adam's apple. There’s a thin sour taste in his throat, and he sets his jaw. ‘Not my fault if he didn’t listen.’

‘It’s not about Fitzjames,’ says Blanky.

Francis frowns. ‘Who, then?’

Blanky flicks at the paper. ‘It’s about Silna.’


	5. Thou shalt not stir a foot to make a foe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Scurrilous Whispers are Afoot - A Promising Friendship is Dashed - A Punishment is Sought - An Attempt is Made to Chastise - An Ancient Tradition is Broken to the Dismay of All.

The headline says ‘SILNA UP TO NO GOODSIR: LABOUR AND GREEN MP’S SAUCY SEXTS,’ accompanied by a grainy photo of Silna and Harry Goodsir up against a wall. At least, Francis assumes it’s them – it’s dark, just the suggestion of grabbing and hands sliding into hair and the general kinetic energy of kissing – but there’s something about the way the man’s head tilts up that – yes, yes, that earnest inquisitive cock of the head, it’s Goodsir all right. Somehow Francis knows without looking that the instant they parted Goodsir was asking ‘Is that all right? Ought I to be doing something differently?’

And Jaysus, the article’s reproduced texts they’ve written where Goodsir asks that very question, at an hour that Francis is not going to examine, and about something that Francis is absolutely not going to read more about.

He looks up. ‘Why the fuck is this even news? They’re single, last I heard. They can shag each other’s brains out, and it’s nobody’s business but their own.’

‘Number one,’ says Blanky, ‘when has that ever stopped the _Mail_? Number two, they were using Government property to send each other messages, so you know they’ll argue that means this fuckery’s in the public interest. Read the article.’

The copy purrs ‘If Silna’s got Goodsir on side, no wonder the Greens have been so keen on Labour.’

Francis looks up. ‘He thinks Silna’s doing a – what, a Delilah act? – to get the Green Party onside?’

Blanky shrugs. ‘Fuck knows what the little weasel thinks. It’s what he’s _saying_.’

‘The Green party,’ says Francis, ‘A grand seduction of the mighty and powerful Green Party. With all … one… of their elected MPs.’

Blanky grins. ‘Every little helps. Hung Parliament, and all that.’

‘Yes, but she _isn’t_ ,’ says Francis, ‘helping. Silna doesn’t give a tinker’s fart about the Party line. Everyone knows that.’

‘Hickey does, any road,’ says Blanky, ‘why d’you think he’s suddenly all red-faced about Silna and Goodsir having it off?’ He leans forward. ‘He’s not stopping, Frank.’

Francis sits back, rubbing his forehead. ‘We should talk to Silna. Not easy, your first tabloid smear.’

‘We _can_ talk to her,’ says Blanky, sitting down opposite Francis, ‘but I doubt she’ll be too fussed.’ At Francis’s raised eyebrow, he says ‘Well, she’ll be furious. But it’s Hickey she’ll be furious with. She’s not looking to _us_ to do owt.’ He gives Francis a long look. ‘Should she be?’

Francis meets Blanky’s gaze and sighs. ‘We’ll have a word with Hickey.’

‘Good,’ says Blanky. ‘Gently, mind.’

Francis grins. ‘There’s mixed signals for you. Thought you wanted me to give him what for.’

‘I want you to cut him loose,’ says Blanky. ‘Nothing for him to grab on to, nothing for him to report. Fucker’s still press.’

Francis grunts in acknowledgement.

* * *

The promised word doesn’t materialise immediately, or even within a week. Well, it can’t, can it. Francis doesn’t have any way of getting in touch with Hickey, and when Jopson offers to contact the _Mail_ offices Francis waves him away. He’s not about to issue instructions to Hickey over the phone about whatever understanding he thinks they have. He’ll just have to find another way to have that conversation. That conversation, and the no less pressing one with Silna about her voting record. Blanky’s refusing to send in Ned again to put the frighteners on her, and Christ knows the lad’s been about as much use as a paper condom so far, but Silna’s part of Ned’s flock of MPs to keep in line, and the boy’s got to learn.

‘She’s not one for the threats, Frank,’ says Blanky, ‘it’s what you like about her.’

He does like that about her, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing at the moment.

‘We’ll need to do it,’ says Blanky, and Francis grunts. ‘Might be easier once you’ve given Hickey his pink slip. Summat to offer her?’

Francis nods, and Blanky looks at him. ‘Better have that word with him, then, eh?’

‘Fecker’s shy all of a sudden,’ says Francis. Blanky looks at him but doesn’t say anything.

* * *

A week later, and Francis is in Stephen’s. The cold snap’s turned out to be less of a snap and more of an early and extended winter, and Francis has found a seat by the bar away from the draught. He was sharing a Badger’s with the Northern Irish MPs, and then Blanky joined him to backslap with the Scottish Labour MPs, and Francis has said the words ‘devolution’ enough that the sounds just slide into each other now, not that it matters when not a man Jack of them can hold his drink, Christ, look at them, they’re fucking plastered.

Blanky’s off home now after offering to call Francis his Ministerial car, but Francis has waved him off. ‘I can take the Tube home,’ he says. He likes knowing the Tube routes home still. There’s a comfort to it, to the chatter of information about engineering works and planned disruptions and bus replacements and the roiling heave of commuters and tourists. Makes him feel like there’s a part of him that’s still … connected. That can still find his way home. Not everyone can say that. Not a one of those plummy toffee-nosed feckers could find their actual way around the city. Scarcely a one of them could find their bare arse with both hands and a compass. Not that that’s seemed to stop them.

He raises two fingers, catches the bartender’s eye and taps his glass. Someone slides into the seat next to him and he looks up.

Ah yes. Of course.

‘Hello, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey.

Francis says nothing, waiting for his glass to come to him.

‘I’ll have what my friend here’s having,’ says Hickey.

Francis pulls his glass towards him and says nothing.

Hickey waits for his drink to arrive and takes a sip. He lowers his glass and licks his lips, the tip of his tongue flicking out. His little beard gleams in the light.

‘You read the article, Mr Crozier?’ he says. His head’s cocked to one side.

Francis nods, and Hickey’s shoulders straighten. His eyes are brighter.

‘How did you find those messages?’ says Francis.

Hickey smiles demurely. ‘I have my ways, Mr Crozier.’

‘Those were Government machines.’

Hickey smiles again, dimples deepening. ‘I have my ways.’

‘Clearly,’ says Francis mildly, watching Hickey take a sip from his glass, pale lashes fluttering over the rim as his dimples flash.

‘I told you, Mr Crozier,’ says Hickey, ‘I’m good at making people look at true things.’

‘You did tell me that,’ says Francis.

‘She’ll have something to think about now, that Silna,’ says Hickey. ‘She’ll know her place.’

‘Her place?’ says Francis.

Hickey knits his hands together on the counter and leans sideways. ‘Lippy, that one. Throwing her weight about. It’s what she wants, eh, make a bit of a splash? Well, she’s making one now.’

‘She was speaking her mind,’ says Francis, watching Hickey, ‘which is what she was voted in to do.’

Hickey slants Francis up a look. ‘Oh aye,’ he says, ‘speaking her mind all over the place. Thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba and the Second Coming, rolled into one.’ He takes a genteel sip of his whisky. ‘Couldn’t be doing with that, could we?’

‘Could _we_ not,’ says Francis. ‘And that’s why you picked her.’

Hickey has the beginnings of a flush now, pink and excited. ‘She’s a trouble-maker, that one, Mr Crozier. That kind never knows when to stop.’

‘That is a danger, all right,’ says Francis.

‘It is,’ says Hickey, ‘but we’ve sorted her out.’

‘Have we,’ says Francis.

Hickey takes a larger sip and smacks his lips. ‘You’ll see, Mr Crozier,’ he says, ‘anyone’s got a problem with us, they’ll have a thing or two they don’t want being talked about.’

‘And you’re good at making people look at true things,’ says Francis.

Hickey wriggles in his seat and grins. Francis says ‘You know, nobody asked you to dig up dirt on Silna.’

Hickey wrinkles his nose. ‘Didn’t need to be asked. Saw a problem, saw our chance, took it.’

‘You keep saying ‘we’ and ‘our’,’ says Francis.

Hickey looks across at him. ‘She was a problem.’

‘Silna’s an MP who disagreed with the Party line,’ says Francis, ‘it happens. It’s my job to sort it out.’

‘Right,’ says Hickey, ‘that’s why she was a problem for us.’

‘ _A_ problem, maybe,’ says Francis, ‘not _your_ problem.’

‘She was in the way,’ says Hickey, a frown creeping between his eyes, ‘I spotted a way to slow her down, and I took it.’

‘She’s a member of my party,’ says Francis, ‘you did a hit piece on a member of my party.’

‘Oh, you think she gives a fuck about parties?’ says Hickey, ‘there wasn’t a thing you could do about it.’

A stillness settles over Francis. ‘The things I couldn’t do about it,’ he says, ‘being spying on her, taking photographs in private moments - ’

‘They were in public, anyone could - ’

‘Stealing personal messages - ’

‘Between her and someone from another Party. She could’ve been saying all sorts - ’

‘From Government property - ’

‘You needed me!’

Francis puts his glass down. ‘I am going to contact the _Mail_ , Mr Hickey,’ he says. ‘Your editor. He’s the one who gave you all this rope, and he’s got to be the one who hangs you with it. I am going to ask for an apology - ’

‘An apology?’ says Hickey. He looks stunned, like a small animal receiving an unexpected kick, and Francis sets his teeth. ‘For what? To whom?’

‘An apology to Silna,’ says Francis, ‘and now to me. And you’re asking me for what? You just gave me my pick, there, Mr Hickey.’

‘I just saved your career!’

Francis bares his teeth. ‘An apology and a fine, then.’

‘You were getting nowhere with her before I - ’

‘As high a fine as the courts will tolerate.’

‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d - ’

‘Keep talking, Mr Hickey, go on.’

Hickey’s lips snap shut. His face is very pale and his eyes are blazing. He rises and twines his scarf around his neck.

‘You’ll want to pay for your drink,’ says Francis.

Hickey stiffens. He reaches for his wallet and slaps down a tenner, eyes on Francis. He steps away from his seat, turns on his heel and walks out.

* * *

‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off,’ says Blanky, when Francis tells him. His Michael Caine impression’s irritatingly good.

‘You wanted me to give him the push,’ says Francis.

‘Gently, I said,’ says Blanky. ‘You think you’ll get the fine?’

Francis grunts. ‘The _Mail_ ’d rather pay that than apologise, they say.’

‘Well, that’s some - ’

‘I want both, Tom. I’ll not settle for one or the other. You saw what they did to Silna.’

Blanky cocks his head. ‘And it’s Silna pushing for both, is it?’

Francis doesn’t answer.

* * *

The Crown Prosecution Service whacks the Mail with a £100,00 fine, which they pay – eventually – with a squawk that can be heard from space. Francis holds firm on the apology, and – at considerable length – one is forthcoming from Hickey. Personally, at Francis’s insistence. Or at any rate, Hickey’s column does contain the word ‘sorry’, even if it’s immediately followed by ‘for any offence caused’. And even if the _Mail_ has three separate columns in the same paper sneering at political correctness gone mad, and Red Labour coming for red-blooded British free speech.

‘We’re joined by the Government’s Chief Whip, Francis Crozier,’ says Stephen Stanley, ‘who’s at the centre of a raging controversy about censorship.’

Francis snorts. ‘The _Mail_ ’d be a sight less fussed about censorship if I asked for what Hickey really deserves.’

‘Which is - ?’

‘What’s the punishment for breaking and entering?’ says Francis. ‘Distribution of images that don’t belong to you?’

Stanley considers him. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘You’ve certainly given the press something to think about.’

‘The _Mail_ ’s always got something to be hysterical about,’ says Francis.

‘Hardly just the _Mail_ ,’ says Stanley. ‘Here, from the _Spectator_ : ‘LABOUR CHIEF WHIP SHOULD STICK TO HIS OWN JOB’. From the _Telegraph_ : ‘LABOUR CENSORSHIP GONE AMOK’. The _Guardian_ has two separate op-eds about Labour’s flirtation with censorship.’

‘Jaysus,’ says Francis. He has a headache and he doubts Stanley will be minded to take him to the BBC Club, which means he’ll have to take his chances with the yuppies at the _Horse and Groom_. Christ, why did he agree to come here? ‘And anyway, little wankstain deserves a flogging. He’s lucky he gets away with a muzzle that’ll come off in seconds.’

There’s a silence during which Stanley gives him a long, cool stare through his nostrils. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, Minister, you’ve given us a rare spectacle indeed: something the _Mail_ and the _Guardian_ can agree on. I’m sure you’re delighted to be the thing they’re agreed on.’

‘Christ,’ says Francis to Blanky later, ‘they were happy enough to gloat over the fine and tut-tut over the _Mail_ ’s privacy violations. And now look at them. You’d think I’d backed a train over the family pet, Christ. As though there’s a one of them would piss on Hickey if he were on fire.’

‘It’s the press,’ says Blanky, ‘They stick together, the job lot of ‘em. You know that. You’re making them twitchy with this fine and apology business.’

‘Let ‘em twitch,’ says Francis. ‘Nothing to us.’

‘It is if it’s us they’re twitching at,’ says Blanky.

‘It’s part of the job,’ says Francis.

‘It is,’ says Blanky, ‘though now it’s a bigger part than it need be, mind.’

Francis doesn’t reply.

* * *

‘Fishery and Aquaculture Bill’s on the docket for the twenty-eighth,’ says Blanky.

‘That it is,’ says Francis.

‘Funny thing, though,’ says Blanky, ‘overheard one of the other lot making plans for a vote on the twenty-ninth.’ He throws Francis a look. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about that, would we?’

Francis shrugs. ‘The Aristocunts have a day wrong on their docket.’

Blanky cackles. ‘The looks on their faces when they find out, eh?’

Francis grins.

‘Well,’ says Blanky, ‘thank fuck it’s our job to tell ‘em, aye?’ He looks at Francis and cocks his head. ‘When d’you want to do it?’

Francis takes a long sip of his whisky and says nothing.

‘Frank?’

‘If they come to us,’ says Francis, ‘we’ll tell them. They’ll figure it out in time.’

‘In time,’ says Blanky, ‘but that’s a day less for them to get their lot in for the vote.’

Francis shrugs. ‘Not our fault they can’t count, is it?’

Blanky laughs, but there’s a frown in his eyes.

* * *

‘Sit you down, Silna,’ says Francis. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

Silna eyes the clock on the wall and shakes her head. Francis shrugs and pours himself a whisky. It’s four on a Thursday. Christ knows there’ll be bums in seats enough in the pubs that Francis would likely have to take his chances standing outside. ‘Tea, then?’

‘I’m fine,’ says Silna, ‘thank you.’

‘Ah now, you’ll not let a man drink by himself,’ says Francis, ‘you’re not so hard-hearted.’

Silna looks at him for a long moment and says ‘Tea, then.’

Francis claps his hands together. ‘Tom, can you get Silna some tea?’

Tom Jopson vanishes and reappears with eldritch speed.

‘Milk, two sugars, right?’ he says, and Silna nods.

‘Thanks,’ she says, taking the cup from him.

‘Now, then, Silna,’ says Francis, ‘you’ll be wanting to know what we did about Hickey.’

‘No,’ says Silna.

‘He apologised,’ says Francis, ‘I’ll show you the article.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ says Silna.

‘You’ll have seen the fine the _Mail_ got,’ says Francis. Silna shakes her head.

‘Hundred grand,’ says Blanky. Silna nods. There’s a silence.

Blanky clears his throat and says ‘We wanted to talk about your voting record, Silna.’

Silna says nothing. Blanky says ‘What do you need?’

‘What do I need to do what?’

‘The Works Bill,’ says Francis, ‘what’ll it take for you to support it?’

‘Vocally,’ says Blanky, ‘bring in your little band of Merry Men.’

‘What’ll it take?’ says Silna. ‘It’ll take a completely different Bill.’

Blanky grins. ‘All right,’ he says, ‘that’s your opening bid, then.’

‘No opening bid,’ says Silna, ‘no bid at all. I’m not voting for that Bill.’

Francis says ‘Look, Silna, we just need to get through this bit in the Session, and then - ’

‘And then?,’ says Silna. ‘And then what? Then we make way for another Bill cutting off another public service? So we can make way for another shaving away something else for pensioners or single working mothers or asylum-seekers? And then another, then another, then another?’

Blanky says ‘All that training on the picket-lines come in handy, then.’

‘Silna,’ says Francis, ‘we need to keep the other lot out. I’ll not argue with you, or trade words. It’s as simple as that. We need to find a way to keep. Them. Out.’

‘Why?’

Blanky and Francis exchange a glance. ‘Why?’ says Francis. ‘What do you mean, why?’

‘I mean why?’ says Silna. ‘Why, when you’re just the same as them?’

‘Ah, Jaysus,’ says Francis, ‘don’t give me that. That’s child’s talk, and you know it.’

‘It’s not,’ says Silna. ‘This Bill, the spending cuts for the doctors before the election, it’s nothing the Tories wouldn’t do.’

‘They’re fighting us because they don’t think we go far enough,’ says Francis. ‘Come on, now.’

‘And then what will you do?’ says Silna. ‘Roll over? Give them what they want?’

‘Now listen - ’ says Blanky, but Silna is leaning forward.

‘You bring me in here,’ she says, ‘to threaten me, or give me carpets for my office, or season tickets to the football, or whatever else you’re bribing the others with. You twist people’s arms, you push and pull, you make them sell out their constituents, you risk them losing their seats because they stuck with the party and not the people who voted for them, and you don’t even want to be here.’

‘What are you talking ab - ’

‘You don’t,’ she says. ‘You’re just sitting there, pushing these … pieces of paper … and you’re letting them get worse. You’re letting _him_ get worse. John Ross.’

‘Silna - ’

‘It’s sleepwalking,’ she says, ‘the Party, and you’re letting it. You don’t even care what you’re pushing. You haven’t cared since - ’

‘Careful now,’ says Francis.

‘James Ross,’ says Silna. ‘And he can make his choices and you can make yours, but why can’t I do the same? Why are you taking your incel funk out on us?’

The door slams open and Fitzjames strides in, brandishing a sheaf of papers like a flaming sword. ‘Francis, I need a word.’

‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ says Francis. ‘Not now, Fitzjames.’

‘Yes, now,’ says Fitzjames.

‘I’m in a meeting, Fitzjames.’

‘I’m sorry, Silna,’ says Fitzjames,‘but I’m afraid it can’t wait. _Francis_.’

Silna is still looking at Francis, and he is violently disinclined to meet her gaze, or the other accusing dark eyes raking him over. And then Blanky says ‘Get out, Jimbo, and knock.’

There’s a pause. ‘Knock?’ says Fitzjames.

‘Knock,’ says Blanky. ‘They’ll have taught you that at Eton, I expect. You put your knuckles to the wood, like so - ’ and he raps on the table, ‘till it makes a sound. We’ll let you in, don’t fret.’

Fitzjames gapes at them, still clutching his precious paper. He turns to look at Francis, who looks back with a cocked eyebrow. Finally Fitzjames, with a muttered ‘For God’s _sake_ ’, turns on his heel, shuts the door behind him with exaggerated care, and knocks.

Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘What’s this about, then?’

Francis shrugs. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘I might,’ says Blanky, and sighs. ‘Right, Silna. We’ll be seeing you, then.’

‘Probably,’ she says, ‘I’ve not changed my mind.’

‘We’ll _definitely_ be seeing you then,’ says Blanky. ‘Just … think about what we said, yeah?’

Silna shrugs. ‘Ta for the tea,’ she says, and makes for the door. Fitzjames stands aside politely to let her leave, and then raises his hand to beat a deeply put-upon tattoo on the door.

‘Who is it?’ says Blanky, dulcetly.

‘For God’s _sake_ , both of you.’

Blanky cackles. ‘All right, all right, come in.’

Fitzjames storms in and slams his sheaf on the desk. ‘The docket,’ he announces without preamble, and Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘The second reading of the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’

‘What about it?’

‘It’s on the docket for the twenty-eighth.’

‘That it is.’

Fitzjames takes a breath. ‘We had it as the twenty-ninth.’

‘Really?’ Francis looks at Blanky with eyes as grotesquely wide as he can make them. ‘That’s funny. Still, what’s a day, eh?’

‘What’s a – Francis, did you _know_ about this?’

_Ah for Christ’s sake_ , thinks Francis, _you know I knew. Why would you be bursting in here, all flashing eyes and floating hair, if not to give out to me?_

He raises his head and says ‘Not our fault if you can’t get your lot in on time.’

‘There’s an agreement to notify the other side if there’s an error, Francis - ’

‘Oh, an agreement, is it?’ says Francis. ‘An agreement to follow you with a mop and a bucket because your lot can’t be arsed to count?’

Fitzjames has two scarlet spots on his thin cheeks. ‘You’re happy enough to make use of gentleman’s agreements when they suit your purposes,’ he says. ‘How often have you needed us to pair your sick or your can’t-be-bothered?’ He looks ostentatiously down at the glass by Francis’s elbow. ‘Or your drunk?’

Francis’s head snaps up. ‘Well in that case, then,’ he says, ‘we’ll not be troubling you with that any further.’

‘Francis,’ Blanky says, but Francis is looking at Fitzjames.

‘No more pairing.’

Fitzjames is standing very still. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m serious,’ says Francis, ‘You think you’re doing me a favour? Get out, and take your charity with you.’

‘Francis, it’s an ancient tradition, you can’t - ’

‘Get out,’ says Francis, ‘get out of my office.’

There’s a silence. Fitzjames shoots Blanky a look, and Blanky motions him away. When the door shut he turns to Francis. ‘Frank, look - ’

‘Go on with you,’ says Francis, ‘and tell Stockton he’ll need to be coming in after all.’

‘He hasn’t been feeling well - ’

‘We can’t pair him. So he’ll have to come in.’

There’s a pause, and then Blanky’s shoulders drop. ‘Yes, Chief,’ he says.


	6. But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Past Indiscretions are Made Much Of - Inutility of Notes as an Aid to Winning Fair Lady - Chastisement is Attempted with the Inverse of Success - A Victory is Won, but at What Cost - A Decision is Made.

Francis is a little surprised that it takes as long as it does for Hickey to respond personally to him. Presumably the _Mail_ ’s happier to froth about censorship in general and Photoshop Francis into photos of Chairman Mao while keeping Hickey’s head low, and calls that a reasonable compromise for more than a month.

It can’t last, of course.

‘CROZIER? MORE LIKE MORE BEER!’ blares the headline, followed by ‘LABOUR WHIP’S 20K A YEAR HABIT’.

‘Little fucker’s been doing some arithmetic,’ says Blanky, nodding at the headline.

‘There’s no way that’s right,’ says Francis.

‘That wouldn’t stop the _Mail_ ,’ says Blanky. ‘Anyway, you want to argue with them?’

Francis does not. Every part of his head is sluggish and afflicted with a dull throb, just out of phase with the ache in his eyes and neck.

At least the bloke in the photo they chose of him looks like he’s having fun, for a given definition of ‘fun’. The leering buffoon in the photo, with his dead tooth, and blank eyes, looks like someone’s thumped every original thought or feeling out of his head with the business end of a mallet and replaced them with… ah, Jaysus, with what?

Francis doesn’t know where Hickey found those pictures, but he’s distantly impressed. Once the little streak of piss had found them, it was only a matter of time before he made use of them.

He thinks he remembers that evening. He’d made up his mind to ask Sophy to marry him (again? Was this the first or second time?). She’d had to think about turning down a PR contract that she’d helped land. Renewables division of a massive energy company, but there was a conflict of interest with James trying to push through more stringent oversight on renewables production and distribution. Francis had been twisting some arms, and Sophy’s was – well, Francis wouldn’t twist her arm, wouldn’t dream of it, he wasn’t _that_ stupid, but this was important, she had to see that.

‘It always _is_ important,’ Sophy had said, ‘it’s certainly more important than anything _I_ could do, isn’t that right?’

She hadn’t given up the contract in the end, but she’d had to let the partners know that there might be a conflict down the road.

‘They’re a massive client,’ she’d said, ‘and if it’s a choice between me and them, I know who they’ll choose, Francis.’

‘They’d be mad not to choose you,’ Francis had said, reaching out to take her hand.

She’d let him take it, cool and smooth in his palm, and studied him. ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ she’d said, ‘it’s a perfectly reasonable decision. And now they’re thinking that if they have to make that choice sooner or later, why not sooner?’

‘Sophy - ’

She’d lifted her hand from his grasp and risen from her chair in a swift elegant movement. ‘Let’s have dinner,’ she’d said.

The Bill had narrowly squeaked through to the Second Reading, but they’d known – Francis and James and Blanky – that they had a fight on their hands to get it further. More scrapping, more wheeling and dealing. Francis had called Sophy from the pub to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he and James and Blanky were shaking down a few dithering backbenchers. ‘Fine,’ she’d said, and when Francis had asked if he should come home instead, she’d said ‘No’.

Blanky had gone home first, followed by James, leaving Francis to make increasingly desperate promises on increasingly convoluted points relating to increasingly remote local authorities. The last of the backbenchers had just left, making plaintive pleas for ‘a tangible commitment’.

And it had been then, with the owlish wisdom of six pints on an empty stomach and a seventh just before closing, that it had come to Francis: A tangible commitment, they’d said, and a tangible commitment was what was wanted.

He’d slammed the bar with his palm so hard his neighbour’s glass had rocked.

‘Oi, mate, watch it.’

Francis hadn’t even looked at him. ‘I’m going to ask her,’ he’d said to his glass.

(Again? Yes, again. Oh, Christ, that’s right, Francis remembers the first time now. _Fuck_.)

Somehow, the guy next to him had overheard, and Francis had been swept into a tossing maelstrom of beery goodwill. His back was slapped so often he had honest-to-goodness welts the next morning, there were wet imprints on his cheek left by enthusiastic kisses from sentimental strangers, someone had – for reasons best known to themselves – popped a pair of sunglasses on his nose, and there he was blinking bemusedly behind yellow-tinted lenses while someone made enthusiastic ‘V’ signs behind his head and a camera went off. He’d been asked to smile, and had done so with all the joyous abandon of a man who hadn’t really smiled in at least a year, and didn’t want to do it then.

He’d made it home, somehow, and passed out on the couch. The next morning, there had been a brisk hand on his elbow, and Sophy’s face, immaculate and cool, suspended over his. Francis’s eyes – bloodshot and still covered by those ridiculous fucking sunglasses – had dragged up the length of her until they met hers. ‘Marry me,’ he’d said.

Sophy’s eyebrows had shot up before her eyes narrowed. ‘There’s water and Seltzer on the table,’ she’d said, ‘and a bucket in case you need it.’

Then she’d turned on her heel and left.

That evening, Francis had cleaned up, steeping himself in scalding hot water until his skin was a glowing, indignant pink. He’d laid the table and got in the Beaujolais that Sophy loved but he privately thought was overpriced swill fit only for people who’d heard rumours about wine but would faint at the real thing. He’d worn the Thomas Pink shirt she’d gotten him for his birthday and brushed his hair until his scalp twinged. He’d flossed. Twice. When Sophy’s key scraped in the lock, he’d met her with a glass of wine, arms ready to take off her coat.

‘Thank you,’ Sophy had said, eyes a little wary on his face.

Francis had bent to press a kiss to a cool smooth cheek. ‘How was your day?’

‘Fine,’ Sophy had said.

‘I’m happy you took the contract,’ Francis had said, ‘Christ knows nobody deserves it better than you do.’

Sophia had smiled, a delicate pink in her cheeks, and sipped at her wine, and squeezed his hand.

They’d had a lovely dinner, gossipping about Sophy’s office and skirting lightly around the Renewables Bill. She’d laughed; Francis had always been able to surprise that schoolgirl giggle out of her. Francis had even thought the Beaujolais might be growing on him.

And then Sophy had put down her knife and fork and said ‘Shall we talk about this morning?’

Francis had nodded and said ‘I meant it.’

And Sophy had drawn a deep breath and said ‘I thought you might have.’

Francis had said ‘That wasn’t the way I wanted to ask you. So - ’ and he’d gotten up and gone over to Sophy’s chair, about to go to one knee when Sophy had said ‘No.’

Francis had frozen, knee half-bent, off-guard and ridiculous. ‘You haven’t heard what I’m - ’

‘Sit down, Francis,’ she’d said, and pulled out the chair next to her. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

Francis had lowered himself into the seat and looked at her. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have asked you like that. That’s not how I meant to - ’

‘That’s not why I’m saying no,’ Sophy had said.

(No ‘sorry’, he’d noticed. No murmured expressions of regret, however perfunctory or insincere. He noticed; he couldn’t help but notice. Sophy’d never bothered to go easy on him. She’d told him once he should take it as a compliment. He hadn’t been convinced, not then, not ever.)

‘Why, then?’ he’d said.

‘It wouldn’t work,’ she’d said.

‘I’d make you happy,’ he’d said, and reached for her hand. ‘I _do_ make you happy.’

She’d looked down at their joined hands and sighed. ‘You do,’ she’d said, and lifted her head. ‘Your job, though…’

‘What about my job?’ Francis had said. ‘Your uncle and aunt are in the game too. My job is how we _met_ , Sophy.’

‘Your job makes _my_ job almost impossible, Francis.’

‘If this is about the Renewables Bill - ’

‘And the Construction Bill,’ she’d said, ‘And the Transport Bill before that.’

‘It’s only the final push, Sophy. Once we get this one through - ’

‘It’s the final push for _this_ Bill,’ Sophy had said. ‘And what about the next one?’ She’d smiled, a real smile, fond and a little sad. ‘There is a next one, isn’t there? For you and James and Blanky?’

‘James is close, Sophy. It’s always heavy going at first, you know that, when you’re building a name for yourself in the Party.’

‘Close,’ she says, ‘James is close.’

There had been something – an inward, questing tone – in her voice that Francis hadn’t known how to answer. At length Sophy had looked up and smiled again. ‘There’ll be more late nights with MPs, or staging late-night question-and-answer sessions, or wining and dining the Guardian, or Times, or - ’

‘It’s the job, Sophy.’

‘I know,’ she’d said, ‘that’s what I said, remember?’ She leaned her chin on her hand. ‘And it’s not like I can ask you to quit. Not with … James … so close.’

Francis’s head had jerked up. He could feel the blood draining from his face before it surged back and he grasped her hand. ‘You could.’

Sophy had looked at him before throwing her head back and laughing. ‘Francis - ’

‘I would,’ he’d said.

She’d looked at him again, then, hard and quick. ‘You would,’ she’d said, ‘and you’d hate me the rest of our time together. Which would be … a year, at most.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he’d said, ‘I love you.’

‘I know,’ she’d said, and it was the gentleness in her voice that had had his feet frozen to the floor in terror.

Francis hadn’t quit his job. He and Sophy had stayed together for three months after that, in no small part due to the Renewables Bill keeping Francis out at all hours, and then a massive job needing Sophy to pull nights at work for weeks on end. They’d left each other takeaway or casseroles and made sure to leave the sink and kitchen counters gleaming, with the occasional strand of shining golden hair on a brush the only whisper Sophy had left behind her in the place that was supposed to be their shared home.

Once Francis had spotted that Sophy was picking up after herself, eliminating all traces, wiping her fingerprints off the doorknob, so to speak, he’d found himself expanding to take up the available space and batter at the narrowing, neatly-sutured-shut membrane around her. He’d begun to leave mugs in the sink. He’d left notes for her – on the fridge, on the bathroom mirror, on her chest-of-drawers, anywhere she could see them. Innocuous enough: telling her that there was stew in the fridge, reminding her that the bin man was due, things like that. The messages didn’t matter so much as the emphatic block-capital F R A N C I S at the bottom.

Initially, he’d found the notes unmoved, the only signs that Sophy’d read them being if they were a bit skew-whiff. He’d put them in more noticeable places: directly on handles or taps or right on her brush. After that, he’d find the notes crumpled up in the waste paper baskets, fish them out and stick them back up, wrinkles and all. Francis had made a career of being difficult to ignore, difficult to dismiss, difficult in general. _This is my turf_ , he’d thought, _this is a game I know how to play_.

He’d found his lips pulling back in a grin of triumph when Sophy’d started tearing up the notes. Neat folds, pressed down with her immaculate nail, and then a brisk shred along the fold.

He’d planned to wait home for Sophy one evening, but James had called with an SOS: a gaggle of the Scots and Welsh MPs were worried about the Renewables bill and he needed reinforcements.

He’d come back reeking of the swill the Welsh had insisted they try (who knew there were vineyards in Wales? Whose bright idea had _that_ been?) and a note saying _I left a plate for you in the oven_. The bedroom door was shut.

The next evening, when he’d let himself in, Sophy had been waiting for him.

‘I didn’t want to do this bit through notes,’ she’d said.

And then he’d seen the boxes: neatly-packed and labelled with Sophy’s elegant sloping hand.

‘We both know this isn’t working, Francis,’ she’d said.

* * *

‘It’s Ashton-under-Lyne,’ Blanky says, ‘he can’t make it for the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’

Francis lifts his head. ‘He’s going to have to.’

‘He has surgery, s – Franc – sir,’ says Ned Little, ‘I really don’t think - ’

‘When’s his surgery?’ says Francis.

Ned and Blanky exchange a look. ‘The twenty-sixth.’

Francis cocks an eyebrow. ‘That’s two days before the vote.’

‘Frank,’ says Blanky.

‘Two days to come down,’ says Francis. ‘What’s the problem?’

Ned swallows. ‘It’s – the doctors normally recommend rest after the surgery, Francis, I don’t know if - ’

‘He can rest,’ says Francis, ‘after the vote on the Bill.’

‘Francis, he’s already put off the surgery a couple of times to come in for votes, I don’t think - ’

‘It’s a three-line whip,’ says Francis, ‘if he wants to continue representing the fine folk of Ashotn-under-Lyne as their Labour MP, he can come in for a couple of hours.’

‘Francis,’ says Ned, ‘I really think he’s concerned about - ’

‘It’s a _benign_ tumour, Ned, Jaysus, the doctors said so. It’s a precaution. And besides,’ he sends him a grin, ‘nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster.’

Ned blinks. ‘What?’

‘It’s a tradition, Ned,’ says Blanky, ‘nobody’s supposed to die in the Palace. No commoner, anyway. And the lot of us are as common as muck, eh?’

Ned’s brow is beginning to furrow. ‘But they – bodies don’t work that - ’

‘We know, Ned,’ says Blanky, ‘people do cark it in the House. It’s just that if you do, it won’t be called till you’re halfway across the bridge.’

‘Right,’ says Ned, ‘are we – are we worried about that?’

Blanky shoots Francis a look. ‘We worry about everything, Ned.’ He claps Ned on the back. ‘You certainly do, eh, lad?’

Ned tries to smile. Francis says ‘So there you go, Ned. Nobody’s dying. Not yet.’

Ned nods, but he’s looking a little green. Francis looks at the calendar, and looks at Ned. ‘Twenty-eighth, Ned. There’s your clock, there’s your marching orders. Get to it.’

Looking definitely green now, Ned nods, says ‘Yes, Chief,’ and walks out.

Blanky looks at Francis and says ‘Frank, could we not talk to - ’

‘Stockton North,’ says Francis, ‘where are we with him?’

There’s a pause and Blanky says ‘I’m working on him.’

‘Go work on him some more, then.’

Blanky looks at his shoes and then nods. ‘All right, Chief.’

* * *

‘Have you seen the docket, Frank?’

Francis raises two fingers to call over the bartender and turns to Blanky. ‘What’ll you have, Tom?’

‘You’re all right,’ says Blanky. ‘The docket, Frank.’

‘What about it?’ The coaster’s sticking to the surface of the bar.

‘The Appropriations Ways and Means Amendment. It’s on the twenty-eighth.’

‘And?’ Christ, the coaster’s peeling itself off the bar and onto his elbow now.

‘Same day as the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill.’ Blanky slaps the docket down onto the bar. ‘Almost the same time.’

Francis looks at the lines Blanky’s pointing to in silence. At length he says ‘You think he knew?’

‘Who?’

‘He,’ says Francis. ‘Fitzjames. The Tories. You think he – they – knew?’

There’s a pause and then Blanky sighs. ‘I don’t know,’ he says.

‘They never said anything.’

‘Can’t blame them, can you?’

Francis looks at Blanky and Blanky leans forward. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter now, does it? Frank, we have to - ’

Francis pulls his drink towards him and says nothing. There’s another silence before Blanky leaves.

* * *

‘It’s Silna, sir,’ says Tom Jopson, on the morning of the twenty-seventh.

‘What’s she done now?’

‘The post office workers were protesting the Works Bill, sir,’ says Jopson, ‘and Silna joined them.’

‘Of course she did,’ says Francis.

‘Yes, sir. And there was an … altercation … with the police.’

‘Don’t tell me - ’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. She was arrested.’

‘She’s a goer, that one,’ says Blanky.

Francis puts his head in his hands for a moment before saying ‘Have her brought in. Tell her she can write out a written apology or pay a fine. What’s the maximum allowable?’

‘Three hundred pounds, sir.’

‘Written apology or fine of three hundred quid, then.’

Silna makes an appearance the next day, on the twenty-eighth, and walks to the desk, where Tom has put out a pad and pen for her. She sits down, looks up at Francis and picks up the pen, before putting it back down and placing a wallet on the table.

She pulls out a twenty-pound note. Another. Then another.

‘Sixty,’ says Tom, producing a pad and pen of his own.

Eighty. One hundred. A hundred and twenty. A hundred and forty. A hundred and sixty. A hundred and eighty.

‘Two hundred,’ intones Tom.

Two hundred and ten. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety.

Silna produces a small fat coin purse and slaps it on the table.

Two hundred and ninety-two. Two hundred and ninety-four. Two hundred and ninety-five. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.

Silna roots about in the purse.

‘Two hundred and ninety-nine pounds and fifty pence,’ says Tom, making a note on his pad.

Seventy pence. Eighty pence. Ninety pence. Ninety-five. Ninety-seven. Ninety-nine.

‘Three hundred pounds,’ announces Tom.

Silna picks up her wallet and purse and walks out.

There’s a silence in her wake, broken only by Blanky saying ‘That was pretty fucking good, actually.’

Francis turns on him. ‘You have a vote you need to be getting to. Need to get a move on, if you’re to make the Fishery Bill as well.’

There’s a silence before Blanky nods. ‘Yes, Chief.’

* * *

Francis is waiting with an eye on the door. It’s been a good showing for the Fishery and Aquaculture Bill. Ashton-under-Lyne turned up, a bit yellow under the skin and wheezing, but he made it down the right corridor. They didn’t have time to get him another shirt when the stitches from his surgery reopened, but Francis is happy to promise for the Party to cover the dry-cleaning bill, and Tom Jopson’s waiting back in the office with gauze and band-aids and antiseptic swabs in case the stitches open again. They’re neck-and-neck with the Aristocunts (Fitzjames and the man who insists on being called Dundy apparently twisted every available arm in the party to get their lot in), and the doors are closing. Where the fuck is –

There’s a sickening crunch, followed by lusty swearing.

‘Mister Speaker! MISTER SPEAKER!’

Fitzjames and Francis rush over to find Tom Blanky prostrate on the floor of the House, red-faced and triumphant. His legs are caught in the door.

‘Made it,’ he says, grinning up in Francis’s face. ‘Through the right corridor and everything.’

Francis finds his face splitting into a grin. ‘Looks like one for us, Fitzjames,’ he says.

‘Hang on a moment,’ says Fitzjames, ‘The Deputy Whip didn’t make it in time. His vote’s void.’

‘Don’t pull that with me,’ Francis is beginning, when the Speaker raises his hand.

‘Would you say,’ says the Speaker to the presiding Clerk, ‘that the bulk of the Deputy Whip’s person was in the House as the vote was closing?’

The Clerk considers. ‘I would say so, Mister Speaker.’

‘A half?’

Francis, Fitzjames, the Clerk and Speaker regard Blanky before the Clerk says judiciously ‘Three-quarters.’

‘Mister Speaker, this is ridiculous, we can’t – ’

‘The Opposition Chief Whip’s objections are noted, but I’m going to call this one for the Government. Two hundred and ninety votes to two hundred and ninety. And three-quarters.’ The Speaker sighs. ‘Record books’ll have a field day with this one.’

Francis is baring his teeth at Fitzjames when there’s the sound of swearing from the ground.

‘Tom?’

‘It’s nowt,’ says Blanky, face pale, ‘leg’s giving me a bit of bother’s all.’

‘For Christ’s sake open the door,’ says Francis to the Clerk, bending over Blanky, ‘Tom, are you – ’

‘I can,’ says the Clerk, in a trembling voice, ‘I can see the bone, Jesus, that’s not – ’

‘Call an ambulance,’ says Francis, ‘For God’s sake call an – ’

Fitzjames has already produced a mobile and is speaking into it, issuing directions. When the medics arrive, Francis is shuffled off to the side. He’s allowed to ride in the ambulance, holding Blanky’s hand.

* * *

‘He’s shorter than I always think he is,’ he says to Tom Jopson, who’s already called Esther. ‘I always forget – he’s shorter than me. I always - ’

Esther Blanky walks in. Francis goes to her and she lets her eyes rest on him before walking past him.

Francis goes to one of the chairs in the waiting room and sits down and wills his hands to stop trembling.

‘It was a nasty break,’ the consultant and surgeon are telling Esther (Francis is hovering and hasn’t been told to leave, so he hasn’t), ‘Tibial shaft fracture, not pleasant. But the surgery went well. We’re recommending physio, and with care he should recover the bulk of the functioning of the leg within about four months.’

‘Anything longer term?’ Esther asks.

The consultant says ‘We can’t say anything definitive at this point, but it was a significant operation, and there is some chance of some persistent pain and reduced mobility. We’ll monitor him, of course.’

The surgeon says ‘We’re lucky the bone wasn’t infected, which was a very real risk.’

Francis winces. The consultant says ‘He should be able to see people now.’ He glances at Francis. ‘Only one at a time, mind.’

Esther springs up from her seat and goes in. Francis glimpses Blanky taking her hand and watches her head go down as she presses her lips to his forehead. Esther Blanky, that tower of a woman, whom Francis still insists on thinking of as the only woman who could close to match Tom Blanky’s stature even though he knows perfectly well she’s a head taller than him. Tom Blanky in the ambulance, small and human and terrifyingly breakable.

Esther emerges and nods at Francis. ‘You can go in now,’ she says. They’re the first words she’s said to him since she came in. ‘No theatrics, mind.’

Francis nods. ‘Thanks,’ he says. She doesn’t respond.

Francis walks to Blanky’s bed, where his leg’s rigged up in a terrifying-looking cast. Blanky’s watching him, eyes twinkling.

‘Margin of three-quarters of a vote, they tell me,’ he says to Francis. ‘Be dining out on that for a time, I can tell you.’

‘Tom,’ says Francis, and can’t say anymore. He reaches for Tom’s hand and lifts it and presses his forehead to it.

‘Ah now, you soft bugger,’ says Blanky, ‘none of that.’

‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ says Francis, ‘Christ, you have to know, I’m so - ’

‘Look,’ says Blanky, and gives Francis’s hand a little shake. ‘I’m all right, see. Born to be hanged, me.’

Francis gives a rather damp chuckle. Blanky goes on ‘Anyway, nobody dies in the Palace of Westminster, eh?’

‘No,’ says Francis, eyes swimming, ‘but nobody says anything about breaking a leg in the Palace.’

‘Pity,’ says Blanky, ‘was looking forward to the State funeral.’

‘For a broken leg?’

‘All right, then,’ says Blanky, ‘nice golden watch then. No, tell you what – nice shiny anklet.’

Francis laughs, but says ‘Christ, Tom, don’t be kind to me now. I can’t bear it.’

‘He’s not being kind,’ says Esther’s voice. She walks to the other side of Blanky’s bed. ‘It’s not kind he’s being when he pretends there’s nothing wrong, is it?’

‘Essie, love – ’ says Blanky. Esther takes his hand and presses it, and he subsides.

‘Essie,’ says Francis, rising to meet her, ‘I am sorry.’

‘I know you are, Francis,’ says Esther, and Francis feels the gentleness in the words like a blow, ‘And?’

Francis looks at Blanky and says ‘I’m joining AA. And I’ve asked Tom Jopson to clear out all the booze in my desk and flat.’

‘Frank, that’s - ’

‘Good,’ says Esther simply.

Francis nods, gives Blanky’s hand a parting squeeze, gets a pat on the cheek from Esther, and walks out.

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic is courtesy the magnificent greenycrimson.
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery) if you'd like to come yell with me there.
> 
> A shareable link for this fic can be found on [tumblr](https://itsevidentvery.tumblr.com/post/638403771610923008/two-houses-alike-in-indignity-chapter-1) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/itsevidentvery/status/1340445184665018376?s=20), if you are so inclined.


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